


A Garden as Fragile as Glass

by Curlscat



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, M/M, Temporary Amnesia, hand waving of most of the setup, we're here for the pining ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26479552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlscat/pseuds/Curlscat
Summary: “Ah,” Jaskier says. “I see why you might want me not to see you.”The creature stiffens at that, and it looks familiar to Jaskier, though he can’t place why. Nothing about this should be familiar, but he knows what this it, this freezing. It’s protection against the world, against being seen, being understood, and being hated (Jaskier doesn’t freeze, he gets loud and colorful and vibrant, but he knows that protection, the fear underneath it).//Jaskier stumbles into a castle in the middle of a storm. It's not the first time. It is the first time the castle in question's been occupied by a monster, though. And it's the first time he's been forced to stay. Certainly the first time he's been asked to break a curse. That would be a lot easier if his host would tell him what, exactly he has to do. Or why it seems like he recognizes Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 122
Kudos: 666
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally get to post my work for the big bang! I worked with the lovely mewbotz on tumblr (mewbotz.tumblr.com) who made the absolutely GORGEOUS art and the excellent the-ginger-avenger (the-ginger-avenger.tumblr.com and TheGingerAvenger here on AO3), my beta without whom this work would be far worse.

Jaskier stumbles upon the castle in the middle of a blizzard, as these things usually go. It’s not the first time he’s ended up in a strange house because he made a bad decision about travel, and it probably won’t be the last.

The castle is—large. And fairly decrepit, at least on the outside. Crumbling, covered in hideous gargoyles, the stone dark from more than just the pounding of the storm outside. Jaskier bursts through the front doors—twice as tall as he is, easily, and covered in carvings it’s too dark for him to make out, though he feels them beneath his fingers—and pushes them shut with his own weight, breathing heavy. He wipes meltwater out of his eyes from where it’s dripping out of his hair.

Inside is silence.

Jaskier looks around, once he’s caught his breath. He’s standing in a cavernous front hall, just as ornate and, frankly, eerie as the outside of the castle. There’s no one in sight.

“Hello?” he calls.

No answer.

Jaskier shivers. He’s soaked to the bone, and he’d very much like it if someone would tell him whether or not he can stay here until the storm passes. A fire would be even nicer, while he’s wishing for things.

Maybe the place is abandoned.

But no, there’s no dust, nor cobwebs, and the door opened too smoothly to have been anything but oiled recently.

“Hello?” Jaskier calls again.

Still no answer, but in the distance there’s the sound of a door closing: _thud-click_.

Well. He’s not going to find anything out standing here.

Jaskier heads in the direction of the door in question, leaving wet footprints along the floor behind him. He has to squint against the darkness, but there’s enough light that he doesn’t trip over his own feet or walk into any walls.

“Hello?” he calls again, as he walks. “I’m sorry for barging in uninvited, but the storm chased me in here.”

There’s a click, and a door he hadn’t noticed opens up next to him, spreading a line of light on the floor before his feet.

Jaskier shrugs and goes where he’s bid.

There’s no one in the room, but there _is_ a crackling fire and a soft, plush chair pushed up before it. The chair looks expensive, and Jaskier is soaked to the bone, so instead of sitting in the chair, he plops onto the flagstones of the hearth. This is the first inviting place he’s been since he got lost in the damn forest, including the rest of the castle.

“Thank you,” he says, though he can’t see anyone. Who knows. Maybe his host is invisible. He’s heard of stranger things. Written and sung songs about them. Witnessed them, even.

The memory of the witnessing feels… off, somehow, as if something’s missing from it.

Jaskier doesn’t push at it. He’ll figure it out eventually. He shrugs out of his wet doublet and spreads it out next to him in front of the fire to dry. His undershirt is just as wet, but on the off chance that there _is_ an invisible host somewhere in the room, it’s probably rude to just strip without warning.

“I’ll have you know,” he warns the room in general, “if this is some sort of trap I’m being lured into, I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

There’s another _thud-click_ behind him, and Jaskier turns around. Nobody in the room, still, but the door, which Jaskier left open, is firmly closed now.

There’s a pile of cloth on the back of the chair that wasn’t there before. Jaskier goes to inspect it. His mysterious host has left him a towel, a fluffy robe, and a blanket. If he’s being lured into a false sense of safety, at least he will die _dry_. At the moment, it seems worth it.

“Thank you!” Jaskier calls to the air again.

There’s no response, and honestly? At this point, Jaskier isn’t surprised. He shrugs, strips, dries himself thoroughly, and wraps himself in the robe. That, with the blanket, means he’s the closest he’s been to _warm_ in—

A few hours, if he’s being honest. But what bard ever made a living being honest? Certainly not Jaskier. So if his host appears and asks, Jaskier will say it’s the warmest he’s been in days.

Jaskier spreads his wet things out in front of the fire, curls up in the chair, and closes his eyes while he waits for the cold to melt out of his bones.

* * *

When he wakes up, he’s in a bed. Which, extremely comfortable, yes. A little odd, though. It’s a very nice bed. Heavy velvet drapes on all four sides, pulled back on the right side to face a dimly burning fire, one that’s been burning for hours, and needs feeding soon before it goes out. Thick, heavy quilts, the kind that weigh down on his legs. Plush pillows, and enough bed on either side of him to feel like he could have a bedfellow or three without too much kicking each other.

For a little while, he just lies in bed, watching the embers cast shadows on the floor between him and the hearth. It’s cozy, the coziest he’s been in a while. He starts humming absently, a nice little tune about warmth and home and having someone who loves you and will stoke the fire if you fall asleep. It’s rather good, actually. He’ll have to write it down. Play with the chords a bit first, though. This one sounds too similar to another song he’s heard recently. The name is escaping him at the moment, but he certainly can’t be accused of ripping someone off. Marx would have a field day if word got out that Jaskier accidentally stole someone’s tune.

There’s a creak from somewhere near the foot of the bed that Jaskier can hear over his humming.

“Hello?” Jaskier asks. Is his elusive host in here? Did he disturb them with his music?

The creak stops.

“I—sorry,” Jaskier says. “I’ll stop.”

There’s a rough voice, barely more than a growl, so low Jaskier almost can’t hear it: “It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Right.” He starts humming again, repeating the same line a few times with different scancions, “ _and my dear I’ll keep you dry if you let me, if you let me_ , no that’s terrible, and it doesn’t even rhyme.”

There’s a soft chuckle, still deep and rough, the same voice, still listening.

Jaskier would like to meet his host. They’ve been working hard to stay out of sight, and it would be polite to let them, but he’s damned curious, and he certainly hasn’t made it this far in life by being polite.

He sits up, and the covers fall off his chest, and it is _cold_.

Well. His host will still be here later, most likely. His curiosity can wait until he’s a little warmer. He tries the line again, testing pet names that rhyme with “me.” He’s settled on a tune that he likes well enough, but his brain is still sleep-fogged and a rhyme just won’t come to him.

It feels like time has stopped, like he’s been paused in this wonderful, comfortable moment, with everything he could want: music, comfort, a question, and someone to listen to him. The ache he’s been carrying for who knows how long now? It’s faded, a little. Like he’s forgotten to feel it.

Then the fire pops loudly, and it shatters the music, and the peace that came with it.

There’s another creak from the foot of the bed, and the curtain that had been pulled back falls between Jaskier and the fire.

More creaks. A clatter of wood falling. His host is feeding the fire, it seems. 

Ooh, feed, that almost rhyme with me. _And my dearest I’ll feed/your fire, just let me/just let me_. Yes, that’s quite good.

Jaskier’s curiosity defeats his desire to stay comfortable and warm, and he snakes an arm out of the covers to pull at the curtains around the bed. They’re heavier than he thought they would be. Still, eventually, he manages to pull them out of the way enough to see a dark shape between him and the fire. It’s huge, at least six feet tall, probably, and half as wide. He can’t see a face, with his host bent over the fire.

He shifts, and the blankets slide off his chest. If he can just get a little closer—

His host whips around, and Jaskier sees a bright yellow eye, slip pupiled and glowing in the firelight. Then the curtain is yanked back down and Jaskier sees nothing but dark velvet.

The voice comes again, less growl and more hiss, and says, “Don’t.”

“Right,” Jaskier says. Sorry.” 

Bugger.

* * *

His host leaves. Jaskier climbs out of bed eventually to look around the room. It’s a beautiful room, dark wood flooring in a pattern that Jaskier can’t quite track, stone walls draped in heavy embroidered tapestries. Not much furniture other than the bed, though that is huge.

Jaskier tries the door. It isn’t locked. He pokes his head out, searching for his host. No one in the hall. 

Time to explore.

What? It’s not as if Jaskier has anywhere in particular to _be_ right now. He’s a traveling bard, and if he wants to travel his way through this castle, that’s his gods-given right.

So down the hall he goes, choosing left on a whim. The pattern in the floorboards continues uninterrupted down the hall, and Jaskier allows it to lead him through the castle, trying to decipher what it’s showing him.

It _almost_ looks like some kind of running animal, then he takes a step forward and it looks more like a river inlaid into the floor. Another step, and he could swear he sees eyes.

And really, who bothers to put patterns like this into the floor of a _hallway_? He could understand if it were a grand hall, or even just the bedroom. But here? It’s a waste of money, fascinating as it is.

Probably this place belongs to a sorcerer. Jaskier makes a face. He’s got a poor opinion of sorcerers. Too many stories of sorcerers trapping maidens in towers. And yes, Jaskier knows that stories aren’t always true, but this one? He’s certain, down to the depths of his bones, that this one is true. Couldn’t tell you why if you asked, but he knows better than to trust sorcerers.

Or sorceresses. Fuck sorceresses.

* * *

Jaskier keeps wandering for who knows how long. He’s starting to get hungry, but he has no idea where the kitchen is in this place. The castle 

Eventually, he finds a staircase. It’s a tight, winding thing, designed to hold off an invasion, with narrow windows letting in gray light from outside. It’s still storming. The windows have glass in them—another flaunted sign of wealth. Not plain glass, either. Every window has at least one small inlay of stained glass shaped like a flower. Mostly roses, though Jaskier sees the occasional lilac or lavender. Sometimes a buttercup or dandelion. The artistry involved in putting a flower into a sheet of glass is beyond Jaskier’s ken.

Downstairs, Jaskier follows a cold draft down the hall, hoping it’ll lead somewhere interesting. He’s gotten turned around in all this ornate wood carving and tapestry work (more flowers, and wolves) and has, honestly? No idea how to get back to the room he woke up in. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Maybe he’ll find the door he came in through last night, and then he can orient himself from there.

And either way, he might find something worth seeing.

The draft grows into a breeze into a full on wind, and Jaskier is not dressed for this, still in the robe his mysterious host left him, no shoes on his feet and no hat. But he’s curious, so he presses on.

He finds a door left open, swinging in the cold wind. It’s smaller than most of the other doors he’s passed, smaller even than the door he was led to last night, the one that gave way to a warm fire and a comfortable chair. The wood of the door is painted the same dark gray as the stone, and if it hadn’t been open and banging around, Jaskier might have walked straight past it. As it is, he pokes his head out to see where he’s been led.

It’s a small courtyard, barely bigger than the bedroom he woke up in, maybe the length of three tall men lying head to toe, squared. The walls of the keep rise high and dark around it, and on the second and third floors, Jaskier can see windows. There are none on the first floor, nor any other doors Jaskier can see.

This doesn’t, however, necessarily mean that there are no doors. Because the courtyard is stuffed full of plants. Live plants. Growing plants, green in the middle of winter.

It hasn’t suddenly stopped being January, though, which Jaskier knows because the wind has just blown a snow drift up against his bare feet, trying to push the weather in through the door. But the flower garden is still rising up through the white ground cover like it hasn’t noticed, or like it has, and considers itself above such petty things as seasons.

Jaskier grins and barely stops himself from clapping his hands with delight. It’s beautiful. Probably an illusion. This sort of magic usually is, though why someone would go to the trouble of making an illusion outside when it would be just as easy to make an illusory garden indoors where the weather couldn’t shine through, Jaskier doesn’t know. Hell, he doesn’t know why someone would make such a shoddy illusion, letting the snow show through at all.

Except—it can’t be a shoddy illusion, because there’s snow gathering on the flowers. So it’s a very good illusion, actually, and someone went to the trouble of creating an illusion that interacts with the world around it.

Jaskier’s never heard of magic like that. They studied the theory of magic in Oxenfurt, of course, though they never taught anything particularly interesting. If you got too powerful, Aretuza took notice, and if you went to Oxenfurt, you wanted something out of life other than sorcery. So Jaskier knew enough to know that crafting an illusion like this would be extremely difficult, though he couldn’t have told you why.

He could, however, tell you that he wants to get a closer look.

Because the other option is that it’s real. That someone made a garden that grows in winter. And wouldn’t that be a delightfully frivolous use of chaos?

Jaskier steps out into the garden. 

It’s cold and he hisses and hops a little as he walks towards a particularly thick wall of roses off to his left. They’re climbing roses, fat and red as his feet will be when he’s done satisfying his damnable curiosity. The kind of roses with more petals than they have any right to own, drooping under their own weight. The snow gathering on them isn’t melting, but there’s no sign of frostbite on the vines growing strong and green.

Jaskier reaches out, touches one. It’s real, soft petals under his fingers. The snow gathering on it is real, too, and it melts when he touches it.

Huh.

Fascinating.

He leans in to get a sniff, tilting one off the roses up towards his face because it’s _probably_ not an illusion if he can touch it, but there’s no harm in checking more senses.

Smells real, too, a heady perfume, just as rich and over-the-top as the roses look. And he can hear the rustling of the leaves in the wind. He has no desire to find out if they taste as real (or he does, but he’d have no point of reference).

Jaskier goes to release the rose, but a thorn catches him hard and sharp and deep in the back of his hand. He hisses and draws his hand back sharply to his chest, and the rose comes with him.

There’s a bang, and the wind picks up, and everything goes white around Jaskier, the snow whipping up like a cyclone around him.

“What in the—” Jaskier starts, but before he can finish that sentence he’s got a mouthful of snow trying to force its frigid way down his throat, and he’s coughing, doubled over himself. It feels like something he should panic about, this danger to his throat, because that’s how he makes his livelihood, but it’s just a little snow and he’ll be fine, so why is he panicking like he’s felt this pain before? Then he’s too busy coughing to think about it anymore.

The roaring in his ears changes pitch, grows louder and deeper and with something underlying it that could almost be a second roar— _is_ a second roar.

Now would be a good time to have a weapon. Or a friend. A traveling companion.

Well. He doesn’t have one, never really has found someone he wants to spend that much time with, so he’s just going to have to remind his lungs to do their job and hope he can outrun whatever probably wants to kill him.

He forces himself to stand up straight, and concentrates on breathing without expelling a lung, trying to see through the snow whipping around him.

A dark shape starts to form through the maelstrom, huge and getting closer, bigger. By the time Jaskier can breathe almost normally again, it’s close enough to touch, though he still can’t make out any details through the snow.

“What were you _thinking_?” a voice demands, dark and furious and definitely not human.

That seems unfair. Obviously Jaskier’s done _something_ , but how was he supposed to know touching the rose would nearly kill him? He just wanted to know if it was an illusion.

The shape reaches out faster than Jaskier can react and grabs at his wrist, pulls his hand up to its face. This is when Jaskier realizes that the rose came with his hand when he drew back from the stab wound, a bright red spot in the blinding whiteness. Is that what happened? Did picking the flower break something important?

The hand on his wrist is warm, which is a nice change from Jaskier’s frigid exposed skin, still being battered by blowing snow. It’s also distinctly _hairy_. Huge, yes, but the fingers are short, more like paws than anything else. It doesn’t, however, appear to be pulling Jaskier closer, or trying to hurt him. The grip is firm, yes, but not squeezing the bones of Jaskier’s wrist together or anything like that. Controlled.

Another touch, and this one _does_ hurt, even though it’s light, barely there, the hulking shadow reaching another hand up to probe at a spot on the back of Jaskier’s hand. It hurts something awful.

Jaskier draws back with a hiss, and the massive paw-hand lets go easily, allows Jaskier to draw his hand in against himself.

It isn’t until his hand is within a few inches of his face that Jaskier can see it clearly, and that— that is when he sees what’s happened to his hand.

The back of his hand is covered in something dark and red, and the thorn that started this whole mess is sticking out of his skin, nearly half an inch long, not counting the bit that’s buried in his hand.

Jaskier touches the thorn. It hurts like a bitch, unsurprisingly.

He draws his finger back with a hiss, then, even more gently, touches the red stuff around the protrusions. Why is there so much blood?

Because it’s not blood.

His hand isn’t wet, or sticky, and it feels like ordinary skin. It hurst to touch, too, though not as much as the thorn did. This hurts like a bruise, or like a light burn. Like he’s been branded, somehow.

But since when did a burn turn that color? That deep red?

A paw-hand comes out of the blinding, dangerous white, as close to Jaskier’s face as he had to draw his own hands. It _is_ hairy, like he thought. And big. Bigger than Jaskier’s hand, a little longer and twice as wide. Jaskier draws his hand closer to himself again, out of reflex.

The paw stops dead-still as soon as Jaskier flinches. It’s barely discernible through the whipping snow, white fur on white wind.

“Let me take it out,” says the rumbling growl of a voice. And now that it’s not shouting, Jaskier recognizes it of that of his elusive host.

Jaskier proffers his hand to the paw. Well. Now at least he knows why his host didn’t want to be seen.

Gently, gently, the paw reaches forward and grabs the thorn. It _hurts_ , and oh, Jaskier doesn’t do well with pain, he _hates_ it, wants it to stop and never happen again, Jaskier likes _nice_ things like soft worn linen undershirts and silk doublets and feather beds and a warm mouth on his and fine wine and rabbits cooked over an open fire with a friend to listen while he chatters and _not pain_.

And then the thorn is out, a single drop of blood dangling from its curved tip. It hangs there for a second before dropping straight to the ground.

The wind dies down with the drop of blood, and Jaskier can see, suddenly, his host.

They are, without a doubt, a monster.

A lesser bard (Jaskier won’t name names, but he can certainly think of one in particular) would run screaming, or at least take a step back. Maybe faint. Maybe freeze. Because in front of him is a creature at least seven feet tall, covered all over with thick, silvery-white fur. It looks more like a wolf standing on its hind legs than a man, if a wolf ever had long, curling horns or fangs in an almost-human mouth. If a wolf had human shoulders or a thick mane around its neck. If a wolf had slit pupils.

So not much like a wolf after all, maybe. Still, it’s the closest comparison Jaskier can make. Something to the left of wolf. Wolf-man-monster.

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “I see why you might want me not to see you.”

The creature stiffens at that, and it looks familiar to Jaskier, though he can’t place why. Nothing about this should be familiar, but he knows what this it, this freezing. It’s protection against the world, against being seen, being understood, and being hated (Jaskier doesn’t freeze, he gets loud and colorful and vibrant, but he knows that protection, the fear underneath it).

And that is just unacceptable. Monster or no, this person-thing has been nothing but gracious. And, well, Jaskier’s always been interested in danger. Danger is where all the best stories are.

So he winks and says, “after all, you’re gorgeous. Let just anyone see this and you wouldn’t be able to keep the suitors away.”

The creature relaxes, and it’s so minute Jaskier almost doesn’t see it as much as sense it. It cocks its head to the side, looks at Jaskier sort of quizzically (probably. Jaskier’s mostly guessing at what that emotion is), and shakes its head.

“Just to be certain,” Jaskier says, “this _hasn’t_ been some sort of long convoluted plan to lure me into comfort so you can do something nefarious to me, has it?”

A low grumble that might, almost, be a laugh. Or it could be a growl, but it seems laugh-like, a little. And it’s followed by “no,” so Jaskier thinks he’s right.

That settled, Jaskier looks at his hand again. He can see it more clearly now that the snow and its magical wind have settled, and everything has gone back to being lit in the gray-white way that means the snowstorm will probably be over soon.

What he’d thought was blood isn’t. It’s not a burn, either. It’s some sort of pattern across the back of his hand, shaped like a rose. He touches it again.

Yup, still hurts.

Jaskier draws his finger back again with another hiss, and turns his hand so he can look at the rose more clearly. It covers his whole hand, with the center point right exactly where the thorn rested, as if the rose had bloomed out from the break in his flesh. It looks almost like stained glass, each petal shape separated by a thin strip of ordinary skin. It’d be beautiful, if it wasn’t probably some kind of curse or ill omen or something.

“You know what this is?” Jaskier asks his host.

“I have an idea,” the monster rumbles.

“I’m not going to like it, am I?” Jaskier asks.

“Probably not.”

“Well, get it over with, I guess.”

“I don’t think…” the beast says, “I don’t think you can leave.”

“Well. Bollocks.”

* * *

They test it, because Jaskier isn’t an idiot, despite what some people might imply.

And it turns out Jaskier _can_ leave, technically. It just hurts. Hurts like death, hurts like fire and stab wounds and poison pulsing its way up from his hand.

After the third attempt, he collapses against one of the huge, ornate doors (turns out the pattern on them is wolves and flowers. Seems the castle has a motif), cradling his hand against his chest. It isn’t burning anymore, but he’s still gasping at the memory of the pain, not confident he can hold himself up, like the hurt ripped something out of him. His whole body is shaking with it, though the pain was only in his hand.

His host says, “Let me see,” and reaches a pawlike hand out towards Jaskier.

Jaskier gives his hand over easily, much more easily than he probably should, than most people would give their body to something so obviously inhuman, so big and potentially dangerous. It is quite possible Jaskier doesn’t have a very good sense of when to run and when to stay.

But the paw holding his hand is gentle and the claws don’t touch his skin, hovering, shaking just beyond it, and Jaskier feels safe, protected. Cared for. And who cares if sometimes this gets him in trouble? He’s always made it out before, and the best stories are always found in bed with trouble.

A rough paw pad presses against Jaskier’s hand oh-so-gently. It hurts. Jaskier hisses.

“You’re not hurt,” his host says.

“No,” Jaskier agrees readily enough. “Just cursed.” And as far as curses go, it could be worse. Jaskier saw a man with the head of a hedgehog once.

The hand holding his goes stiff, the claws still not digging into Jaskier’s skin, but touching it, just barely, and Jaskier looks up. It’s a minute change, so small Jaskier doesn’t even know how he sees it, but his host has gone rigid and tense. Still trembling, shaking against an invisible restraint.

In fact, he’s been trembling this whole time, standing dead still while Jaskier tried to push himself through a doorway, like it was taking all his effort to keep from collapsing like Jaskier has.

Ah.

“You’re cursed, too,” Jaskier says.

His host doesn’t say anything. They stay stiff, ears pinned back against their head, tail fluffed like a scared cat.

“Can you not talk about it?” Jaskier asks. Sometimes, he’s heard, curses come with caveats like that. You can’t tell people what will break it, or why you’ve been cursed, or that sort of thing.

“No,” his host says.

“Even if I know?” Jaskier asks again.

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” his host says.

“I can work with that,” Jaskier says brightly.

He takes a close look at his host, who is still holding his hand gently is their own. Jaskier assumes his host is a man, but he could be wrong. Their body language is familiar to Jaskier, though he can’t place why. It’s stiff, like someone who’s trying to hide something.

“You’re trapped here too,” Jaskier guesses. And that’s part of it. But more than that… they’re still trembling, shaking where they’re gripping Jaskier’s wrist. “Does it hurt you when I try to leave?”

No answer, but Jaskier can see a yes in his host. A softening of the jaw and a stiffening of the shoulders at once, as if Jaskier’s guess has relieved them, because the answer is out, but maybe they don’t like the answer. Which. Well. Of course they don’t.

Because Jaskier has heard enough about curses to understand what this means. This isn’t two curses, it’s one. It’s one curse, and that means Jaskier has been tied up in someone else’s problems, which means, “I have to break your curse, don’t I?”

And there’s that stiffness again. All over. He does. And his host isn’t happy about it.

“Well,” Jaskier says brightly. “I suppose we’d better get to know each other, if we’re going to be stuck together for a while. I’m Jaskier. Master of the seven liberal arts, poet extraordinaire, traveling bard. And you are?”

His host tilts their head at Jaskier as if surprised he’s taking this news so well (and honestly, Jaskier’s a little surprised, too. He’d rather like to be melodramatic about it, but he has the feeling his host will take it personally, and that doesn’t seem fair. Jaskier will have a fit of dramatics later, on his own. Write a song about the perils of wandering the world and the struggles of captivity.)

Then his host says, “Geralt. My name is Geralt.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier should  _ know _ that name. Geralt. He should— there was someone named Geralt, once, wasn’t there? Someone famous? Infamous? But that doesn’t feel right. The name feels soft on his tongue, familiar, like his own name. But he couldn’t just  _ forget _ someone like that.

Well. He’s trapped in a castle with someone who was probably a lot less monstrous a few years ago. He probably could “just forget someone.” But wouldn’t a spell to make him forget a whole person be… more thorough? Less like Jaskier can’t remember the dream he had last night and more like a hole in his life, or a darned seam? A good tailor can make it so you can barely tell there was ever a hole at all. If Jaskier knew someone named Geralt once, the person who cast this spell wasn’t very subtle about it.

Maybe he had a friend in childhood named Geralt. That’s probably it. Someone his parents decided was inappropriate company for a future viscount. There were a lot of those. Not that Jaskier doesn’t appreciate high society, but the people his parents thought were appropriate company were all so… tedious.

It’s been a few hours since Jaskier tried and failed to leave the castle. He’s back in the room he’d slept in the night before. His room, he assumes. After they found out he couldn’t leave, Jaskier and Geralt headed back into the castle. Jaskier tried to say something witty about being trapped together and making the best of it, but Geralt only grunted. He kept  _ looking _ at Jaskier, too, as if he expected something.

And, well, probably most people would be having a bit of a panic right about now, but Jaskier has always been all about the performance, and right then he was performing “calm guest who it would not be an enormous problem to be trapped in a cursed castle with.” But what was Jaskier _ supposed _ to do? Scream? Cry? Ignore the pain and run out into the snow anyway?

When they reached Jaskier’s bedroom door, Geralt stood looking at Jaskier for a long moment. It got a little awkward, actually. Jaskier said something about seeing Geralt later, and Geralt left. He looked back at Jaskier twice, though, before Jaskier closed the door.

_ Then _ Jaskier had a bit of a breakdown.

Nothing too dramatic. No screaming or breaking furniture or anything like that. Just leaning with his back against the door, coming to terms with the fact that he might just be trapped here for the rest of his life. Shaking. Reminding himself to breathe normally. Quite a bit of talking to himself.

Jaskier has come to the conclusion that it could be worse, honestly. It’s not as if he had any plans for this winter. It’s not as if he _ usually _ has much in the way of plans. He travels. He sings, plays for his supper. If he’s invited somewhere to perform, he goes there. Every once in a while he goes home to Lettenhove, just to make sure his cousins haven’t decided to ruin the place. Usually in the winters he heads for Oxenfurt, but this year he wasn’t interested. He felt a little too melancholy to spend a lot of time with teenagers. Put it down to turning forty.

So? Well, this is as good a place to spend the winter as any. And it isn’t as if he can get kicked out. If Geralt doesn’t want him around? The castle is plenty big enough for them to keep missing each other.

Besides. Jaskier is smart. How hard can it be to break a curse?

* * *

Round about the time Jaskier gets his head on straight enough that he no longer feels like he’ll be putting a brittle mask up if he has to look at another living being, his stomach reminds him it’s been far to long since he last ate.

“Right,” he says firmly. “Time to find the kitchen in this place.”

Before he goes, he looks around his room once, more thoroughly than last time. Under the bed there’s nothing. There’s a wardrobe against one wall that he didn’t notice before, though, and inside he finds a few suits of clothing that will probably fit on him, and several pairs of socks, thank all the gods. No note that says ‘to break the curse do this,’ though, and no food.

He leaves the door to his room open. This time, he tries to pay a little more attention to where he’s going, as opposed to just following the mesmerising pattern in the floor. It’s hard, because the floor is really and truly hard to look away from. But if he’s stuck here, he’s going to have to learn to navigate this place, and the floor? Not exactly a great landmark. For obvious reasons like being everywhere, as well as because it’s dizzying.

He sings to himself as he walks. Nothing special, nothing even with any purposeful tune. Just a distraction from the floor, a way to keep time, a memory device ( _ three doors and then you turned left, that weird window that looks inside another room, four more doors and then a staircase...) _ and a distraction from how damn  _ quiet _ it is in here.

It’s so quiet. Too quiet, really. Buildings make noise. Or they do as far as Jaskier can tell, and he’s been in his fair share of them. True, wooden buildings are creakier than stone, more prone to settling and unsettling themselves with changes in temperature. But still. Stone like this? Without tapestries on the hallway walls (and why aren’t there any tapestries in this hallway)? Noises should echo. And the floor is made of wood, anyway. That should creak. Or the wind should rattle the glass in the windows, or  _ something _ .

Instead it’s just Jaskier in a big empty building. His footsteps don’t even make more than a light tap against the floor.

So he sings nonsense to himself as he wanders. Curiosity pulls at him to open all the doors he passes, but he’s starving, and nobody ever puts a kitchen on the second floor (and why don’t they?) so for now curiosity can wait.

His song morphs from absent-minded noise to what might turn into an actual tune, playing with rhymes about a merchant who insists her kitchen be upstairs. It gets bawdy, though it’s hardly his fault how well “larder” rhymes with “harder.”

His merchant is making excellent use of the cooking oil on her lover when he finally finds the kitchen. It’s not empty.

Geralt is there, huge and hairy and looking at Jaskier oddly, ears perked like he’s heard more of Jaskier’s song than Jaskier would guess.

“Hello,” Jaskier says, cutting himself off mid-line. A small part of himself would like to be embarrassed, but he’s been trying to kill that part of himself since before he went to Oxenfurt, so it can deal with it. So can Geralt. If they’re going to be living together, better who Jaskier is be out in the open from the start.

Geralt grunts in response and turns back to the stove, where a pot of something sounds like it’s boiling.

“Do you need any help with that?”

Another grunt.

Well then. Communicative, it would seem, Geralt is not.

Jaskier leans against the table and looks around the room. It’s a huge kitchen, with an equally oversized stove. Geralt is probably at least seven feet tall, and the stove is probably twice as wide as that. Big enough to roast a boar whole, Jaskier would guess. A kitchen meant to feed a full castle, not just two people. It must be difficult to keep the stove going. Enough fire to heat up that whole thing? It would take a lot of wood.

Besides the stove, there’s a fireplace, currently dark; dozens of cabinets; a pile of wood bigger than a horse; and two water pumps, one attached to a sink and one freestanding. Only one wall has windows, tucked up in a line against the low ceiling. Thin light filters in through them, casting long shadows and lighting the bunches of herbs hung among the beams in stark relief. It would be a pleasant room, if it weren’t for how abandoned the place feels, emptier for their presence than it would feel without them there.

“Stew’s ready,” Geralt says, snapping Jaskier’s attention back to where the creature stands at the stove, head nearly brushing the ceiling.

Jaskier finds a bowl with minimal rummaging and fills it with stew as quickly as he can manage before joining Geralt at the long table, sitting down across from him. They’re both at the end, the table stretching off into the room, empty and quiet and making Jaskier a little nervous, for some reason. This whole place feels haunted.

They eat without speaking, because Jaskier is starved and Geralt doesn’t seem the talkative type. Geralt starts off eating like a ravenous animal, mouth directly to the bowl, before he seems to remember himself and picks up a spoon, tiny in his massive paws. Jaskier’s tempted to eat like that himself, he’s that hungry. Besides, it’s good stew, made exactly how Jaskier makes it himself, though he knows he goes light on seasonings for the average set of tastebuds.

Strangely enough, it’s Geralt who speaks first.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Hm?” Jaskier asks, mouth full of stew. He chews, swallows, says, “Doesn’t seem fair, really. Not your fault I’m stuck here. And you’ve been here longer, haven’t you? You don’t need me whining at you.”

Geralt looks startled. Or at least Jaskier assumes that’s the expression ‘ears back, eyes wide enough to show the whites’ indicates. “No, I meant—”

“If you need to talk about it, though…” Jaskier says. “It must’ve been lonely, here by yourself for—how long have you been here?”

“Months,” Geralt says. He’s got his head tilted to the side, and he’s looking at Jaskier with more intensity than before, which is impressive, considering how intense his resting expression seems to be.

“What?” Jaskier asks, when Geralt doesn’t say anything else for too long, just keeps staring at him. Searching, almost.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “When I said my name earlier—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier agrees. “I remember.”

“Of Rivia,” Geralt agrees. “Butcher of Blaviken? White Wolf?”

“Sorry, should I know you?” Jaskier asks, giving Geralt a polite smile, more polite than someone with the nickname ‘butcher’ probably deserves (or not polite enough, if he’s still in the butchering business. Maybe he only butchers pigs and things).

Geralt opens his mouth, stops, closes it again, and gives Jaskier a long look. “Maybe not,” he says at last. “Never mind.”

“Asking why they call you a butcher is probably rude, isn’t it?” Jaskier says conversationally. Geralt said he didn’t have any intention of eating Jaskier or anything, after all. Might as well carry on as usual.

Geralt hums in something that might be agreement.

“Don’t need to ask about the ‘wolf’ bit, I suppose,” Jaskier says. Then “Although—if you’ve only been here a few months—I assume you didn’t look quite like this before the whole ‘curse’ business?  _ Can _ I ask about that?”

“Can’t stop you,” Geralt mutters, but there’s no heat to it, just the same low rumble Jaskier’s heard all day.

“Why are you called the White Wolf, then?” Jaskier asks.

“A friend wanted to revive my reputation,” Geralt says. “He thought it sounded poetic.”

“Well, I have to say I agree with him,” Jaskier says. “Much better than ‘the Butcher of Blaviken,’ and it keeps the alliteration. Even if you didn’t look quite so wolfish beforehand.” He looks Geralt up and down. “Or white. Was your hair white before this? Was all of it white? Are you an old man under that curse?” So much for being polite to the butcher.

Geralt doesn’t seem offended. He buries his face in his paws and, after a moment, says, in a voice that sounds exhausted, “Yes. No. Sort of.”

Now this is getting interesting. Jaskier has mostly forgotten his stew by now, though he has the presence of mind to push it out of the way before he leans over the table to press his opening. “Sort of old? As in, you’re in your fifties, or…?”

“I’m over ninety.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier says. “That is, I don’t know if you know this, more than sort of old.”

“Only for humans,” Geralt says mildly. He’s dug his head out of his hands and is back to eating his stew methodically.

Ooh. Now this is interesting. What is Geralt, underneath all that fur? An elf? A sorcerer? Something else altogether?

“Finish your stew,” Geralt says.

Jaskier obeys the order without thought, and remembers, abruptly, that he’s still hungry. Oh well. He has plenty of time to unravel Geralt’s mysteries.

* * *

In the afternoon, Jaskier starts exploring the castle with real intent. Who knows how long he’s going to be stuck here, after all. He might as well get to know the place. And if he breaks the curse in the next week, well, at least he’ll have gotten to know a new place. There’s definitely a song in this castle. He can practically smell it.

The thought of smelling things like this, like a sixth sense, twings in his brain like he’s almost remembering something he’s forgotten. It itches, almost. Very frustrating.

But not important, probably.

Now the castle, that he can deal with. The castle is… something. A lot of things. And he’s a poet, right? He should be able to describe it as more than just “dark” or “confusing.”

Right. Not starting with the floor, because the floor is mesmerizing and… not confusing, he’s not using confusing. It’s in motion. It’s a river. Waves. Music for his eyes. Leaping deer among the underbrush. Wolves, chasing them. 

…And he’s describing the floor.

Right. Well.  _ Not _ the floor is the walls, hard-packed stone, all dark gray or black, uneven but worn smooth through time and who knows how many people running their hands along the walls the way he is now. He hasn’t seen any more windows that look outside, though he did see that one earlier that looked inside another room.

Every so often there’s a gargoyle, which is just odd. Gargoyles belong outside, where they can act as waterspouts. Not inside, and certainly not at eye level where they’re lying in wait for him to bash his head against one. Most of them are rather wolfish, all open mouths full of sharp teeth, pointed ears and long muzzles. So many things in this castle are wolfish. Jaskier wonders if it was like that beforehand.

Was Geralt cursed to fit the castle, or is the castle enchanted enough that it changed to mock him? Taking the shape of whoever it holds so they can’t forget, or something like that. Is this castle just… built to hold cursed people?. Would the castle have been full of hedgehog gargoyles if the hedgehog man were stuck here?

There aren’t any mirrors, which is probably for the best, though it doesn’t seem to line up with the idea that the castle is trying to mock its inhabitants. So maybe it’s something else. Maybe whoever cursed Geralt to be stuck here just thought it would be funny to stick a wolf man in a wolf castle.

… Jaskier has no idea where he is, it occurs to him.

Well.

With a shrug, he opens the door directly to his left. It’s a stable. He smells this before he really sees it, the always-dusty smell of horses, and hay and leather. The floor is just as intricate, but the walls are plain wood instead of hard stone.

Is there an outside, then? Could he get out through here? Would it hurt just as much?

Well, only one way to find out.

Jaskier lets the door shut behind him as he enters the stable, and starts poking around. There appears to only be one horse in the place, a chestnut mare. She gives him a whicker of greeting.

“Well, hello,” Jaskier says, walking up to the horse with a smile. “And how are you, beautiful?” No, he’s not flirting with the horse. This is just how he talks to everyone. And she is a beautiful horse. And well-cared for, from the looks of things. Her rich coat is shining like it’s been brushed to perfection, and she’s definitely both well-fed and well-exercized, judging from the shape of her back and stomach.

She nudges gently at his chest over the half-gate separating them, then prances to the other end of her stall. She turns back to stare at him.

“Never let it be said I didn’t oblige a beautiful lady,” Jaskier says magnanimously. He slips in through the gate and closes it behind him, then follows her across the stall, taking careful steps to avoid what looks like a wet spot and what is definitely a pile of horse apples in the sawdust strewn over the floor.

The far wall of her stall is actually another gate.

Jaskier gives her a dubious look. She’s wearing a halter, but there’s no lead anywhere.

She gives him a snort, shakes her head vigorously. It’s clear she wants out.

“If you run off,” Jaskier warns her, “I’m not being held responsible. And I can’t come get you.”

Another snort.

Jaskier opens the gate tentatively. It leads to another courtyard. This one is bigger than the last, and there’s no garden. Nor is there any snow, though it’s still snowing. The snow falls to the ground and just… disappears.

The horse pushes past him, and he ends up shoved against the wall. She’s not rude about it, but she is insistent. She prances a little bit, runs twice around the courtyard, and settles down to graze.

Jaskier shouldn’t just leave her outside, right? It’s cold out, even if the earth… isn’t frozen (he checks, putting a foot into the grass to test).

So he should stay here, at least until she’s ready to go back in.

Well, there are windows lining the courtyard, so he might as well look in them. See what he can see. Good enough. He starts walking around the edge of the paddock, peering into windows as he goes, careful not to step in any horse apples. Most of the windows look into unlit rooms full of furniture covered in dropcloths. But across from the stable, there’s a window that looks into a room that’s inhabited.

All the windows are big, expensive things, the kind that you get in summer palaces, not fortresses like this place seems to be. They reach down to the floor, or nearly do, as tall as doors, with lots of big panes of glass, the kind that are expensive to replace. Again, there are little decorations in the corners of the windows, stained glass flowers bordering the views.

This one looks into a pleasant looking room, a nice, cozily furnished place. Nothing too fancy, just a bed, a wardrobe, a chair, that sort of thing. But on the desk next to the window, there’s a hand mirror. It’s at a good angle for Jaskier to look at, close enough that he can see the details: solid silver around the outside, with intricate etchings shaped like vines, decorated with roses. They look an awful lot like the design on the back of Jaskier’s hand. Like the roses all over this place.

Jaskier would like a better look at that thing. He cranes his head, trying to trace the pattern of the vines with his eyes. It can’t be a coincidence that it looks so much like his brand, that roses keep popping up everywhere he looks. As he shifts, he catches a glimpse of something reflected in the mirror. Not him, and not the beams of the ceiling that should be caught in the angle. It’s—a face?

He squints, trying to make sense of a set of dark eyebrows behind light, messy locks of long hair. As soon as he shifts, it’s gone again.

Right. Enchanted, then, probably.

He looks up, debating trying to get into the room to get a better look at the mirror. But Geralt is there, big and white and fuzzy and not scary, but definitely startling, so close to Jaskier across the desk where he certainly wasn’t a few moments ago.

Jaskier collects himself as quickly as possible and gives Geralt a smile. Geralt most definitely doesn’t smile back, but his gaze softens a little before he walks away without so much as a wave.

Well. Rude.

Except then a moment later, a window a little farther down the wall opens up, and Geralt steps out, leaning his huge frame against the wall.

“I see you’ve found Roach,” Geralt says, a calm rumble.

“Roach?” Jaskier asks, wrinkling his nose. “Like the bug or the fish?”

“The fish,” Geralt says. He sounds a little offended. His nose twitches.

Well, how was Jaskier supposed to know?

“She’s yours, then?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods. “Can’t ride her right now. Too heavy. She needs exercise.”

Is that an invitation? A request?

“I… haven’t ridden any horses in the past… oh, twenty years?” Jaskier says. “I’d offer to help, but I think I’d probably just fall off.”

Geralt just looks over. “Forget how?”

Jaskier shrugs. Doesn’t tell Geralt that most of his memories of riding horses are of being told to fix his form, of being instructed on how best to kill things or people from horseback. Every once in a while, he’s caught rides from someone passing the same way, but a horse is a big expense, so he’s given up on it without much regret. “Can’t play a lute while you’re on horseback,” is what he says, giving Geralt a smile. “I like to compose as I travel. Keeps things interesting.”

Geralt hums noncommittally. After a long pause, he repeats, “Roach could use a rider.”

“I…” Jaskier looks at Geralt, deciding whether or not his next request will be presumptuous. “Would you mind giving me a reminder? Just so I don’t ruin your beautiful lady with my miserable riding?”

Geralt hums again, but this one is higher pitched, and… is that a smile? It looks like a smile. There’s certainly teeth showing. And, oh, yes, there’s the tail wagging. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

“Excellent,” Jaskier says, smiling back. “Do you mind if I leave her out? I’ll stay if you want, it’s only that I was trying to learn my way around the castle and if I stay here too long…”

“You won’t be able to,” Geralt says.

“Is that a slight on my sense of direction or my memory?” Jaskier asks. “Because I assure you, both are perfectly good.”

Geralt lets out a snort that sounds a little like derision and a lot like a deer getting ready to fight another buck. “Neither,” he says.

“Enlighten me, then,” Jaskier says. “Why won’t I be able to find my way around this place?”

“Magic,” Geralt says.

“Ah,” Jaskier says dryly. “How… illuminating. Magic will keep me from learning my way about our prison. Of course.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, which is interesting because Jaskier’s never seen a look like that on anything so wolfish. “It moves,” he elucidates.

“What, the castle?”

“No, the horse. Of course the castle.”

“Well how was I supposed to—” Jaskier notices an expression in Geralt’s eyes (very expressive face for something so inhuman) that seems to read like amusement, the way that tail is still wagging away. He’s being teased, then. He gives himself a mental shake to get off the defensive and asks, “How do  _ you _ find anywhere, then?”

“Think about where I want to go,” Geralt says with a shrug. “Usually I get there.”

“Usually?”

“Sometimes the place has other ideas.”

“Oh, excellent,” Jaskier grouses. “Not only is it magic, but it’s got a mind of its own. And  _ opinions _ .”

Geralt lets out a rumble that might be a laugh. “I’ve missed this,” he says, then flattens his ears against his head and shrinks in on himself.

And why is that, Jaskier wonders? Is it just about admitting weakness? Anyone would be glad to have company again after who knows how long stuck alone in this big empty place that, apparently, has its own ideas about whether or not you should make it to use the necessary.

But no, that doesn’t feel right. Not the bit about the castle having opinions, that just feels weird and unnecessary but very much like something someone would do if they were the kind of person to curse castles and people in them. The bit about loneliness. It feels… off. Like that’s not what Geralt was saying. Jaskier can’t pin down why, but there’s something—

Before he can pull the thought into focus properly, Jaskier is hit with a stab of pain so sharp it feels like the time he got stabbed back when he was a student. He doubles over in a wince, collapses in on himself like a map into a pack.

“Jaskier?”

He straightens to a pair of paws hovering around him, attached to a worried-looking wolf-man-lion who seems like he would like to help but doesn’t know how.

“I’m all right,” he assures Geralt. “I think.” His head doesn’t hurt anymore, at least. He can’t remember what he was thinking about before, exactly, but it’ll come back to him. Probably.

He’s fine. He’s sure he’s fine.

Geralt looks unconvinced.

And, all right, Jaskier does still feel a little… off. “Maybe I should lie down,” he says. “Just think about my room and I should get back there, you said?”

“I should walk you there,” Geralt says, something in his voice that might be worry.

“Nonsense,” Jaskier says, giving Geralt a smile that  _ should _ go a good way to convincing him that Jaskier is  _ fine _ , thanks much. “You’ve got your lady to look after, haven’t you?”

Geralt still hasn’t put his paws back to his sides. Unconvinced, then.

“If we’re lucky,” Jaskier says, “the castle will make it a very short trip. If not, perhaps it’ll lead me right back to you.”

Geralt acquiesces, his paws falling to his sides. His ears are still lying flat against his head and his tail, from where Jaskier can see it behind him, is bushy. Frightened. But he lets Jaskier go.

It’s sweet, almost. If Jaskier wasn’t so shaken, he’d probably be having Feelings about it.

* * *

Jaskier settles into life at this castle with more ease than one might expect, though he can’t say he’s surprised about it. He’s always been keen to let life play out as it wants and just carry him along in its path. Destiny has its plan for everyone, after all, and as long as Destiny’s plan for him involves a comfortable bed, enough food, wine, and good company? Well, where he ends up isn’t too much of a concern.

The company leaves a little to be desired, if he’s being truly honest.

Oh, it’s not that Geralt is rude or anything like that. He’s not talkative, but he seems happy enough to see Jaskier whenever they run into each other. But it’s a big castle, and more often than not they’re not in the same place. And when they are… well. Geralt is just. Odd.

Maybe it’s the curse. Maybe it makes talking difficult. Seems likely, with a mouth shaped like that. But it’s not just the quiet. Jaskier doesn’t mind quiet. Or, well, he does, but he’s gotten comfortable enough over the course of a few days that he doesn’t mind  _ filling _ the quiet.

But the thing is that sometimes Geralt acts…  _ beastly _ . There’s no better way to put it. And it’s not… Jaskier’s never felt afraid around Geralt. Not even that first meeting when he saw him and his brain said  _ monster _ . He’s never felt threatened. But sometimes he’ll say something, and Geralt will blink at him as if he’s forgotten how to speak, or Jaskier will move too fast and Geralt will jump and raise his hackles, that mane around his neck fluffing up.

None of that really describes it well. Here, here’s an example: yesterday, they were both in the library (a truly beautiful place, three stories tall and packed with books and the perfect kind of cozy corners and chairs to read them in, well lit by myriad narrow windows that didn’t shine any direct sunlight on the books and scrolls. His colleagues back at Oxenfurt would die of jealousy if they saw this place). Geralt was reading, turning pages delicately with his claws. Jaskier was just sort of perusing the shelves, looking to see if there was anything appropriately rare for a magic castle.

Then: a tearing noise, and a thunk. Jaskier looked over, and the book was on the floor. Geralt had a page speared in his claws and he was trying to shake it loose. Even when it didn’t work, Geralt kept shaking, more vigorously. He didn’t try to use his other paw at all. When Jaskier moved closer to offer to help, Geralt shied away for half a second, panic in his eyes, before he allowed Jaskier to carefully slide the paper off Geralt’s claws.

And more things like that. Times when it seems like Geralt forgets himself. It’s a little worrisome.

Jaskier’s going to ask Geralt about it, eventually. The next time the castle pushes them together, if he doesn’t take the coward’s way out.

That will have to wait until they’re in the same space again, though, and right now Jaskier can’t find his beast (not monster. Never monster, even when he’s lost himself. Nobody who listens to Jaskier sing the way Geralt did that first morning could be a monster).

In the meantime, Jaskier just wanders the castle, looking for clues as to how to break this curse. He’s had no luck so far, but there has to be some way to break the damn thing. Geralt as good as said so.

If this were a story, it would be true love that broke the curse. But, romantic that Jaskier is, he doesn’t believe that he and Geralt can fall in love this quickly. Not real love. Infatuation, sure. The kind of thing Jaskier  _ calls _ love when he’s feeling dramatic. But real love takes time. And this may be a good place to while away a winter, but Jaskier doesn’t want to hang around long enough to fall deeply and really truly in love with Geralt. If they even do end up falling in love. Sometimes people don’t.

Despite all evidence to the contrary in Jaskier’s personal history.

He’s just left the library again, after a fruitless search for books titled “how to break a curse for village idiots.” There’s a door open a little down the hall, light shining out of it invitingly.

“By all means,” Jaskier agrees magnanimously to the castle. “Let us see what you have to show me, shall we?”

He goes into the room. Nothing special, just a plain stone cube with a big window on the opposite wall, looking out at the forest surrounding the castle (uninteresting. Snow-covered and idyllic, but not really Jaskier’s scene). The room is empty except for a podium on which sits—is that the same hand mirror from before?

It is, shining in a ray of sun from the window.

Jaskier is never one to resist an invitation, and this is obviously an invitation from the castle itself.

The mirror, when he gets close to it, is just as intricate as it looked from through the window the other day. It’s upside-down this time, and on the back is an enormous rose that looks  _ exactly _ like the one on his hand. Off-center and with the raised silver of the petals separated by troughs of equal thicknesses.

“Is this supposed to be a hint?” Jaskier asks the castle. “Because it’s obvious we’re connected, but I can’t do anything with this!” He gestures with his branded hand between himself and the mirror.

No answer, unsurprisingly. The castle may have opinions, but it’s no more vocal than any other building. Rather less, actually.

Well. Fine. He can do this on his own.

Jaskier reaches forward and, bracing himself just in case, grabs the mirror.

Nothing happens.

Feeling a little foolish, Jaskier straightens his doublet a little and relaxes. What did he think was going to happen? It doesn’t matter. Whatever he thought, it didn’t happen. So.

The front of the mirror is much more ordinary. Or at least less obviously Connected To This Whole Curse Business. Just a plain oval of silvered glass bordered with little roses and vines. No black spots or anything, though it’s obviously old.

Reminds him of a mirror the Countess de Stael had in her powder room, actually. Hers was decorated with lilies, not roses, but—

“What in the name of—” Jaskier drops the mirror.

Because the mirror is no longer reflecting Jaskier’s face (he needs to find a way to shave, he’s getting downright unkempt-looking). Instead it’s showing Jaskier a powder room he hasn’t seen in a good three years. And not as he remembered it, but different. The walls, which were plain stone hung with tapestries before, are now papered over. But it’s definitely his countess’ powder room.

Before the mirror can clatter back to the wood of the pedestal, a paw reaches out from behind Jaskier to grab it. And that’s nearly as frightening as a magical mirror, Geralt just  _ appearing _ like that.

He twists around, trying to look collected and not like he’s frightened over a little more magic. He probably fails, judging by the way Geralt’s tail is wagging.

“Don’t  _ sneak up on me like that _ ,” Jaskier snaps.

Geralt’s tail wags harder. He steps back so he’s not looming over Jaskier quite so much.

“So,” Jaskier says. He straightens his doublet again, though he knows he’s giving himself away. “You’ve got a magic mirror.”

Geralt hums in agreement. He places the mirror in the pocket of his shirt, moving in the slow, careful way that means he’s having trouble getting his paws to function like hands. Trying not to drop what he’s holding. Missing thumbs.

“What does it do, exactly?” Jaskier asks. “Or is that part of the whole ‘you can’t tell me about the curse unless I already know what I’m asking about’ thing?”

“It shows you what you ask to see,” Geralt says. Then, surprisingly, he offers more. “A friend made it for me, so I wouldn’t feel so… trapped.”

“Did it work?” He thinks he knows the answer already.

A small laugh. “No.”

Not surprising. Having a window out of your cage isn’t the same as holding the key.

… Hm. The metaphor needs work.

Jaskier considers asking Geralt what—or who—he asks to see, but it seems personal. Rude. Instead, he says, “Must be useful, at least, being able to keep up with what’s happening in the world.”

Another hum of agreement. Then silence. Geralt is looking out the window. It probably feels like a taunt to him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, remembering all at once that he had something he wanted to  _ ask _ , right.

“Hm?” Geralt doesn’t look at Jaskier, but his ears twist around towards him.

Jaskier leans back against the podium, looking up to try to catch Geralt’s eyes. “I’ve got something to ask you, and you might not like it. Don’t—you don’t have to answer, if you don’t want. But I think I maybe need to know?”

Geralt raises— not his eyebrows, exactly, he doesn’t have eyebrows— the fur above his eyes. His ears are still pricked. Waiting. Inviting Jaskier’s question.

“Are you—and don’t take this the wrong way—but are you, sort of… is the curse—” how to say this? “It’s not just physical, the change, is it?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. He’s still not looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier leans in a little, tilting his head to get a different angle, as if that will unlock Geralt’s secrets. “Are you not answering because you’re upset, or is it because I asked it as a question?”

No answer. Geralt’s tail has stopped wagging.

Jaskier taps Geralt on the chest. He’s still breathing, but other than that, there’s no movement. Jaskier taps him again.

Geralt swats his hand away. He still hasn’t met Jaskier’s eyes. His ears aren’t pricked towards Jaskier anymore, instead they’ve gone flat. Annoyed.

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “Both, then.”

“It’s… complicated,” Geralt says.

“And you can’t tell me how,” Jaskier says.

“No,” Geralt agrees.

“Guessing game time, then,” Jaskier says brightly.

Geralt grunts. It sounds very displeased. His ears are still flat against his head.

“I know, I know,” Jaskier says breezily. “It’s always about vulnerability with you big types, isn’t it? I promise I’ll make it as painless for you as possible. First guess. You’re… like a werewolf, losing your humanity when the moon is out, or something.”

Geralt’s tail wags again, a little. “No.”

“Right, that was a warm-up,” Jaskier says agreeably. “You’re actually originally a beast and you’ve been cursed to have human intelligence and it scares and confuses you.”

Geralt barks a laugh, tail wagging harder. “No.”

“Right, that one was kind of out there,” Jaskier agrees. It was, too. He mostly wanted Geralt to relax a little. Time for the real guess. “Um… the curse is stealing your humanity slowly and you’re constantly fighting against it?”

Geralt shoots him a look, meeting his eyes at last. “That should’ve been your first guess.”

“It was,” Jaskier agrees. “You just looked so… defeated. Am I right?”

“You know you are.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Jaskier says. “I suspected, but… that doesn’t... do anything bad to you, does it? Me finding a loophole like that?”

Geralt’s forehead wrinkles up in a way that shouldn’t be adorable on such a big monstrous creature, but it very much is adorable and Jaskier has to bite his lip to keep from making a face about it and probably getting Geralt annoyed at him.

“I shouldn’t have been able to tell you, if you didn’t know,” he says. Some of the tension crept back into his body when Jaskier guessed right, but he’s loosening up again, looking less like one of the gargoyles that line that halls.

“Huh,” Jaskier says. “Maybe I’m just a very confident guesser.”

Geralt’s tail starts wagging again. Just a little.

And Jaskier ruins it by asking, “Is there a time limit? Before you lose yourself completely?”

Geralt looks at Jaskier, who is mostly sitting on the podium where the mirror was. He raises his eyebrow-area and turns away, walking out of the room as he says, “What do you think?”

Jaskier hops down to follow him, jogging a little to catch up. “Well, if I were designing a spell like this—hypothetically, since I’m not a sorcerer or anything—I wouldn’t make it a hard deadline. I think it would be crueler to leave the cursed person wondering and worrying if each time is going to be the last time they remembered themselves.”

“Harsh,” Geralt says, looking at Jaskier askance, an expression on his face that Jaskier can’t quite read.

Jaskier doesn’t bother to defend himself. “I’m not a forgiving sort of person,” he says. “I’ve made my peace with being selfish and vindictive.” He gives Geralt a lopsided smile. “After all, we’re none of us one thing, are we? I’m polite and friendly to you, but you’ve never jilted me or, say, stolen one of my songs and used it to win a bardic competition, for example.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, not looking at Jaskier anymore. And nothing else, for a while. They walk on in silence.

Jaskier tries not to look to closely at the floor as they go, instead keeping half an eye on Geralt. The floor always captivates his attention if he lets it. It’s been showing up in his dreams, too, which is the most concerning part. His dreams are his own, thank you very much.

And they’ve been odd enough since he got to this castle. He can never remember them clearly when he wakes up, but what he  _ can _ remember  _ stays _ with him, lingers long after he wakes. Someone with a snappish tone telling him to get a move on. Long, fair hair. Sharing a bedroll with someone under the stars. The rose on his hand, blown up and huge overhead in place of the sky. A woman with purple eyes telling him important things that he never remembers. A filthy but handsome man, doing a million ordinary things that shouldn’t be special or memorable but are, anyway. Sharpening a sword. Mashing something in a mortar and pestle. Pulling a rabbit out of a snare.

And always that blasted floor underneath, moving for certain now, not just tricking the eye into thinking it was in motion. Forming pictures that Jaskier could never remember on waking, though he knew he saw them clearly when he was asleep.

… and he’s staring at the floor again.

Jaskier yanks his attention away from the floor and back to Geralt, who still hasn’t said anything. He’s not sure if it’s out of regular surliness or of Jaskier’s managed to upset him somehow.

“You never told me if I got it right,” Jaskier says. “About the curse side effects.”

“You… have a similar mindset to the person who laid my curse,” Geralt says. It’s not an answer, but it’s probably as close as he can get.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “Um. Is there… anything I can do to help? When you get like that?”

Geralt hums. It’s a thoughtful hum. Jaskier’s not sure when he learned to tell the difference between Geralt’s non-answers.

They’ve apparently come at last to the door Geralt was aiming for, as if the castle was just waiting for Jaskier to get his head back on straight. The door in question is nearly all made of leaded stained glass forming—oh-so-shockingly—a rose like the one on Jaskier’s hand.

The castle apparently has decided it will pick a theme and run with it. Jaskier thinks it could stand to branch out into different genres. Birds, perhaps. Or fruit. Fruit makes beautiful stained glass.

Jaskier recognizes the room inside. He’s been here before. This is the room that opens out onto the courtyard where Roach is stabled. Geralt’s room, then. He hadn’t noticed the rose door, before.

“Did the castle— what, steal the mirror so I’d look at it?” Jaskier asks.

“Mm,” Geralt agrees. He mutters something else that sounds like “den,” though that makes no sense. He places the mirror on the table by the window, face-up, then stands there, looking at it.

Should Jaskier leave? Geralt keeps staring at the mirror for… a long time. It’s getting a little uncomfortable. Like Jaskier is intruding on something private. Something between Geralt and whoever he’s spying on.

Jaskier is just about to turn and walk back out as quietly as he can manage when Geralt says, “You could—talk to me? When I forget myself? Before, my—she would talk to me, and it helped.”

“I can do that,” Jaskier agrees. He would wink at Geralt, but it would be wasted on that big furry back. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s talking.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. He’s still looking at the mirror.

Right then. Jaskier will just… leave him to it. Geralt can find him, if he wants to. But right now, it just seems polite to let him have some time to himself.

Jaskier will be fine on his own.


	3. Chapter 3

“Were you ever in love?” Jaskier asks Geralt. He’s lying on the floor of the tack room, tracing the inlays on the floor with a fingertip and wondering who the hell puts a veneer into the floor of a  _ stable _ , of all places, trying to distract himself from last night’s dream.

He hadn’t meant to come to the stables. He’d been looking for the library. But the castle seems to have its own ideas of where he should be, as usual. So here he is, watching Geralt do chores again.

Geralt doesn’t stop cleaning tack. The careful, deliberate movements of those paws as they pick apart little buckles and separate metal from leather? It’s almost as mesmerizing as the floor, though Jaskier doesn’t think this is magic. He does, after a few seconds, say “I’m almost a century old,” without looking away from what he’s doing.

“Is that a yes, then?” Jaskier asks. He finds a rough patch on the floor, which is shocking, for some reason. He’d thought the floor was enchanted, and it’s not as if he’s found any rough patches before. Then again, he hasn’t spent too much time lying on the floor, either.

“Mhm,” Geralt says, a vaguely affirmative hum. Then, after a longer silence, “You?”

He says it wearily, as if he’s only asking because he thinks Jaskier wants him to. It’s rude, even if it is sort of true. And it’s not as if Jaskier  _ only _ asked Geralt about his love life because he wanted to talk about his own. He’s genuinely interested.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says, once he’s done being annoyed by Geralt’s apparent allergy to being a polite person. “Sometimes I feel like the answer is yes,  _ yes _ , over and over again, with everyone I meet, whether they’ll give me the time of day or not. But other times—I don’t know if any of it really counts as love, you know?”

Geralt makes an affirmative sort of noise, though how he would know anything about Jaskier’s love life other than that he has a bad habit of not finding out if his partners are married  _ before _ he sleeps with them, Jaskier doesn’t know.

“I haven’t exactly—well it’s just,” and Jaskier is trying to work this out for himself as much as for Geralt, really, because he doesn’t know—well, it’s not like he’s wanted to settle down before now. “I had a dream last night,” he says, switching tracks. Or explaining where this one came from. “I don’t remember it, not really, but… Geralt, it was—I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like that felt. Enough to stay for them, I mean. To stop wandering.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, effusive as always.

“It felt so real,” Jaskier says, not talking to Geralt anymore as much as the floor, the loose bit he’s worming out, slowly, with his scarred hand. “Like I was really—I mean, like it was permanent. Less like I was in love with the idea of being in love, or with, I don’t know, humanity in general. Like there was someone out there I’d want to come back to, not just someone I loved while I was with them. I think I… I think I really want that, you know? Attachment, or something.”

The little piece of wood flips out of the floor with more force than anticipated, and it smacks into Jaskier’s eye. It hurts like a motherfucker.

Geralt looks up, either at the sound of Jaskier’s hiss or the smell of blood, and Jaskier doesn’t see him move (only partly because he’s at half vision) but suddenly the tack soap and bridle are on the table and Geralt is in front of Jaskier, paws gentle,  _ gentle _ as they move Jaskier’s hand out of the way.

“Am I dying?” Jaskier asks, talking mostly to distract himself. “Will I lose the eye? Ooh, if I lose it, I can get an eyepatch. It’ll make me look rugged and adventurous. Though I don’t suppose that’ll be very good for my reputation. I’m more the courtly type. Maybe I can get a glass eye. Ooh, no, a  _ gold _ eye. I met a lovely woman with a gold eye once. Terrifying. Prophetess. Excellent kisser. The things she could do with her tongue—”

“Your eye is fine, and you’re not dying,” Geralt says. “Stop being dramatic.” He’s up close to Jaskier’s face, furry cheekbone right in front of Jaskier’s good eye.

Having been robbed of the melodrama as a distraction from the pain, Jaskier examines the fur in front of him. It’s really and truly white, not blond or gray, or, as he’s heard about a lot of animals in the north, clear. Finer than Jaskier would have expected it to be. He’d rather like to run his fingers through it, see if it’s as soft as it looks.

“Needs stitching, though,” Geralt says, thumbing the area below Jaskier’s eyebrow, just next to the bright spot of pain, a hair’s breadth above the thin skin of his eyelid. He stands, patting Jaskier on the cheek as he goes to rummage around in the shelves across from the saddle racks. “If you’re lucky, you’ll get a scar you can brag about.” He returns with a roll of white linen, a needle, and thread. As he puts himself up close to Jaskier again, he says, “Hold still.”

“That’ll be something,” Jaskier says with a self-deprecating laugh, trying to watch Geralt thread the needle. “I lost a fight with a floor. Got a good hit in first, though.”

“You’ll spin a good ballad out of it, I’m sure,” Geralt says easily. He presses his forearm across Jaskier’s forehead, holding him flat against the floor, injured eye in the light. His other hand, the one with the needle, presses gently but firmly against his eyelid, holding it closed. “You’ve done more with less.” 

“I— what?” Jaskier says. How does Geralt know— 

He’s distracted from this train of thought by the feeling of a needle digging through his skin, sharp and without warning and deeper than he’d anticipated. He tries to jerk, but Geralt’s furry forearm holds him still. Jaskier has no choice but to stay put, let the pain keep coming.

He has freedom of movement everywhere else, though, so he wriggles madly, smacking the back of one hand against Geralt’s bulk as if it’ll make any difference. As if he’ll feel it at all, brick wall of a something that he is.

“Ow, you bastard, that fucking  _ hurts _ ,” he says as he squirms.

Geralt stabs him again.

Jaskier squirms and complains and curses, and Geralt ignores him. It’s over more quickly than Jaskier expected, a little pad of cloth over his eye and more wrapped twice around his head to keep it in place. It feels excessive, for what is probably less than an inch of injury. 

Geralt lets him up, and Jaskier levers himself up to a sitting position to poke at his face. When he gets too close to the injury, it hurts. Unsurprising. He still hisses, and Geralt still laughs at him, a tiny, smothered laugh.

“Here,” Geralt says, and presses something into his hand. “A war souvenier.”

Jaskier looks at the thing in his hand. It’s the piece of veneer from the floor. A little leaf-shaped bit of wood, pale like pine on the bottom, a yellowish round of darker wood inlaid on the top. It looks, for some reason, very familiar.

* * *

Jaskier cannot stop staring at the little bit of wood Geralt handed him. It’s been days, and he’s still carrying it around with him, fiddling with it when he’s got a hand free, staring at it, twisting it between his fingers more often than not.

Today, like a lot of days, he’s wandering the halls of the castle, letting the floor lead him where it may, not really looking at it as much as he’s looking at the little bit of wood, twisting it between his fingers. Why in the name of all the gods does it look so  _ familiar _ ?

It looks almost like an eye, if he holds it sideways. A yellow eye.

And that— that feels familiar, somehow. It feels right. But Jaskier can’t grab it, can’t quite get a grip on the memory, like a word on the tip of his tongue or walking into a room and forgetting why he’s there.

It’s one of a million little things that haven’t added up, recently. Since—well, who knows how long. A while. Since before the castle, definitely. Maybe forever, though. Holes in his memory, gaps where there should be something, tripping over something and looking to the side and expecting someone to be there to laugh at him and not finding them, not even knowing who it is. And with the eye—and it’s definitely an eye, how could he have thought it was a leaf?—with the eye staring at him, he can’t ignore it anymore.

There’s a loud  _ crack _ , and then Jaskier is, very suddenly, no longer walking. Or standing. And his head hurts something awful.

“Ow,” he mutters, and squints up from the wooden eye to see what happened. Ah. There’s a gargoyle sticking out of the wall, and Jaskier must have walked into it.

He reaches up, feels around the sore spot. His hand comes away clean and dry, and he didn’t bump himself on the stitches. He can’t be hurt that badly, then.

It doesn’t seem that important, right now. For once, he can ignore the pain. Instead, he looks back at the eye, trying to reach for whatever it reminds him of. Whose eye it is.

He still can’t reach it. (His head gives a sharp stab of pain that distracts him as he comes near what might be a conclusion, and he’s distracted, and it’s gone again.)

Jaskier has been ignoring whatever’s wrong, mostly. Trusting it to sort itself out. He likes to do that, to trust that things will work out all right in the end. Trust in the power of story, because all lives are stories, and destiny is weaving them. He’s come out fine so far. Now, though? He’s so—he feels so  _ lost _ . Adrift. Like whatever is missing was a core part of him. Like he’s broken, somehow.

“Jaskier?”

It sounds like it’s coming from far away, the question. With a lot of effort, Jaskier wrenches his eyes away from the gaze of the piece of wood, and up to Geralt’s face. Geralt is very close to Jaskier, crouching in the center of the hall, ears pricked forward and brow furrowed at Jaskier. His paw is hovering over Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Hm?” Jaskier asks. “Is something wrong?”

“You weren’t answering,” Geralt says. Then, after a pause, “Why are you on the floor?”

“Hit my head on the gargoyle,” Jaskier says. When Geralt’s eyes go wider than before, he hurries to add, “I’m not hurt. I just…” his eyes drift back to the little bit of wood.

“Jaskier!” Geralt says, high and sharp and loud, more dog-yip than human voice.

_ Afraid,  _ it occurs to Jaskier.

And shouldn’t he be? Jaskier— Jaskier isn’t  _ here _ right now, not really. Jaskier hasn’t  _ been _ here, hasn’t been  _ right _ in who knows how long.

Something is missing. Something is wrong and broken and Jaskier doesn’t know what it is. It has to do with that eye, he thinks. Something—something is  _ gone _ , and Jaskier doesn’t know who he is without it, can’t even begin to answer that question without knowing what’s missing, can’t begin to find out what’s missing because he can’t figure out what it  _ is _ —

“Jaskier!” again, high and panicked.

“I think—” Jaskier says. He looks at his hands. They’re shaking, and he’s having trouble seeing them, having trouble getting his good eye to focus. Having trouble breathing, now that he thinks of it, that’s probably why it’s so hard to talk, that and because he doesn’t know what to say because he doesn’t know anything, how could he think he could break a curse when he can’t even remember what he’s  _ lost _ —

A steadying paw on his cheek. Something to focus on. Four ovals of rough skin, with a smaller remnant of what would’ve been a thumb in a human off to the side. A bigger blotch of skin. Fur between. Real and here and present and almost distracting enough.

“What is it?” Geralt asks. “Let me see your head.”

“No, it’s not—” Jaskier starts, stops, because how can he explain this? How can he begin to get Geralt to understand when he doesn’t know what’s wrong himself, just that something  _ is _ wrong, something is missing what is it what is it  _ what is it _ —

Distantly, Jaskier notes the feel of paws on his face, peering at his stitches.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Geralt asks.

“You don’t  _ have _ fingers,” Jaskier says.

A rumble. A laugh?

But that’s not important. What’s important is that Jaskier was  _ close _ to figuring out what it was, before. The first day at the castle, when he was with Geralt and Roach, he almost got it then, and then he got that headache, and again, later—and the dreams. The dreams are trying to tell him, right? Maybe he just needs the right trigger. It can’t really be gone, can it? Whatever it is he’s lost? If he can notice it this clearly?

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t have a  _ concussion _ , Geralt.”

“Then tell me what’s  _ wrong _ ,” Geralt growls.

“I don’t  _ know _ !” Jaskier wails. “Something’s wrong and I’m  _ missing _ something, I’ve lost something important and I don’t know where it is but I feel  _ adrift _ and I don’t—I must’ve had an anchor once, otherwise I wouldn’t feel so much like—like fucking  _ dandelion fluff _ , but I’m just— _ drifting _ .”

“Oh,” Geralt says. There’s something in his voice that Jaskier doesn’t understand, but of course he doesn’t, he can’t understand anything— 

“Help me find it,” Jaskier begs, twisting his hands in Geralt’s shirt. “I said I’d break your curse, Geralt, but you have to help me first I don’t know what I’ve lost and I don’t think I can break anything for anyone until I’m  _ me _ again.”

A long silence. Then, bizarrely, Geralt starts  _ singing _ . “ _ When a humble bard _ —” he starts. It’s not very good. Geralt’s voice is low and rough and he’s only tangentially carrying a tune. 

But none of that’s important, because the tune—Jaskier  _ knows _ that tune, knows what parts Geralt’s getting wrong, knows the  _ words _ —

And Jaskier  _ remembers _ . He remembers long nights on the road with someone next to him, fires with quiet music and someone cleaning weapons as a gentle metronome. Remembers twenty years of friendship, remembers making a fool of himself and not minding because it made Geralt smile—

Remembers  _ Geralt _ . Soft smiles when he thought Jaskier wasn’t looking, scars Jaskier could map out with his eyes closed, grunts instead of answers, quiet resignation whenever Jaskier decided to be too much to handle again, that stupid need to get himself killed for anyone who needed help.

And Jaskier’d forgotten him.

Geralt leans forward, monstrous face twisted in concern. “Jaskier?”

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly. “ _ Geralt _ .”

“You’re crying,” Geralt says. He doesn’t move forward to touch Jaskier, but he gestures at his face.

Jaskier reaches up to touch his cheek. It’s wet. Geralt’s right. Well.

“How could I  _ forget _ ?” Jaskier asks, whispers, barely makes a noise more than breathing.

Geralt hears it, of course, because he’s Geralt, both the Geralt that Jaskier has gotten to know in the past few months and the Geralt Jaskier remembers.  _ Remembers _ , because he’d forgotten.

Geralt’s eyes go wide for half a second, and he relaxes. It’s a different sort of relaxing that Jaskier’s seen before. Like there’s been a tension he’s been carrying since—since Jaskier forgot him, of course. Gone now. Like this hurt him as much as Jaskier. More, maybe. “Spell, I suppose,” Geralt says. “Did you get yourself cursed, too?”

Jaskier lets out a little laugh. “Hell of a specific curse. Just you gone.”

Geralt hums. “Took your fame with it, maybe?”

Jaskier doubts it. The hole in his life wasn’t fame. He remembers that, he’s still been traveling and well-received wherever he goes in the past year, even if he didn’t play  _ Toss a Coin _ .

“Hang on,” Jaskier says, suddenly. Because he had a perfectly good non-amnesia reason to not sing  _ Toss a Coin _ , actually. “You owe me an apology, I think.”

Geralt runs a paw over his face, the picture of exasperation.

“No, none of that,” Jaskier snaps. “I’ve just remembered that the last time we were both together and in our right minds, you told me you never wanted to see me again.”

“Obviously I was lying,” Geralt says wearily. He doesn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“Yes, well, it was still rude and I deserve better.”

Geralt laughs. Just a small laugh, more surprised scoff than actual amusement, because Geralt never laughs unless he’s drunk off his ass. “Rude? That’s what you’re upset about?”

Well, no. Jaskier’d been heartbroken and handed the past two decades of his life, told he’d been a burden, tossed aside because  _ Yennefer _ broke up with Geralt and Jaskier had the audacity to stay. But he understands. It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d fought, or one of them had lashed out at the other for nothing. It was just the first time they didn’t make up after.

“Apology, please,” Jaskier says. “I’m waiting.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and says, “I’m sorry, Jaskier. You aren’t responsible for all my troubles. Only most of them.”

Jaskier will take it. “You’re just as much of a handful, you arse,” he says, but he says it affectionately, giving Geralt a little push.

Geralt doesn’t move, because he’s a solid brick even not cursed, and he’s bigger now than he was then, dwarfing Jaskier.

“Now that I know what you used to look like,” Jaskier says, this occurring to him with the reminder of who Geralt used to be, “are—does that—can you tell me how to break it, now?”

“Doubt it,” Geralt says. “Curses don’t like to make things easy. Don’t even know if you  _ can _ break it.” At this last, Geralt doesn’t make eye contact.

And there’s something that Geralt isn’t telling Jaskier. Has been for a while, only Jaskier didn’t know the body language well enough to tell. But Geralt isn’t—this isn’t a curse-forced secret. This is a regular old Geralt secret. And more than that, it’s a Geralt secret that has something to do with Jaskier.

Well. Jaskier will deal with that part later. Right now he wants to catch up with an old friend.

“Can you tell me what happened, at least?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt settles himself more comfortably on the floor, more sitting than crouching anymore, not looming over Jaskier. (And isn’t that odd, the looming? Jaskier thought he’d gotten used to it, but he’s going to have to get used to it all over again, now that he has decades of being barely an inch shorter than Geralt back in his mind.) “Pissed off a sorcerer,” he says.

“Always an excellent storyteller,” Jaskier snarks. He pushes himself up the wall he’s propped against so he’s sitting, too. Beneath them, the floor almost looks like it’s moving, pushing him up.

“Didn’t want to step on your toes with your one talent,” Geralt says.

Jaskier grins at him. “You think I tell a good story?”

Geralt runs a paw over his face again, says, “Fuck.”

“No take-backs,” Jaskier sing-songs.

It’s easier to tease Geralt than to actually think about any of this, to deal with the mess in his head and in his chest. He’ll write a song about it, later, when he’s alone. It’s always easier to process things with music. 

And there is a  _ lot _ to process.

The Geralt Jaskier remembers, the Geralt Jaskier  _ forgot _ , is not the same as the one he has gotten to know during their time together, trapped here. And the way Jaskier has acted around this Geralt is so different than the way he used to act, before. There has been no casual touch with new Geralt, for one thing.

And Jaskier knew before that Geralt hated himself, thought himself a monster. How much worse must it be now, now that Geralt looks as inhuman as he feels? Now that he can feel himself slipping away like he’s trying to hold onto water?

Well. Jaskier can help with that, at least.

He swings his legs around and props them up on Geralt’s knees, bridging the space between them in the way he knows it’s easiest for Geralt to accept: annoyance. Jaskier is good at being annoying, at knowing when he’s allowed to push and when to stop. He’s got all this memory back, suddenly, of how to navigate being Geralt’s friend, of how to insinuate himself without raising Geralt’s defenses. And he remembers being  _ good _ at it. 

Seems he still is, from the long-suffering look Geralt gives him. He doesn’t move Jaskier’s feet.

“ _ Why _ , pray tell, did you get cursed?” Jaskier asks. He keeps his voice pleasant, casual.

“An old enemy wasn’t happy about my child surprise.”

Which means Geralt finally went to do something about the Cintran princess, Jaskier gathers. No reason to bother about Geralt and Cirilla as long as they stayed separate. And, what with the way things have been going over in the Cintran area...

Well. Jaskier keeps abreast of the news, and he hasn’t been to Cintra at all recently, when he used to swing by a few times a year. He has been very purposefully avoiding it, actually.

“You got her out, then?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shakes his head. “Got herself out. Found me later, though.”

“And?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt just blinks as Jaskier.

“Well, where is she now?” Jaskier asks at last, exasperated. “I know it’s a magic castle and all that, but I think I’d have noticed if it were more than just the two of us in here at some point.”

“Oh,” Geralt says. “Kaer Morhen, I hope. Yen has her.”

Jaskier blinks a few times. Does not point out that Yennefer has a history of being power hungry, or that Geralt’s child surprise is a pretty important piece in a very messy game that’s playing itself out. Does not make wild gestures or shout how much he dislikes and mistrusts the sorceress in question (and oh, that’s why sorceresses have left such a bad taste in his mouth. Now it makes sense). Does not start up a fight that he and Geralt have had over and over again.

“What?” Geralt asks.

“What what?” Jaskier says. As witty rejoinders go, not one of his best.

Geralt gestures at Jaskier, as if something about him has changed, is showing Geralt something. He probably is. He’s never been particularly subtle. And Geralt has that whole… smell thing going on.

“Can you  _ smell _ frustration?” Jaskier asks. It’s not exactly what he’s feeling, but it’s the easiest of those emotions to name, and definitely the easiest to voice. He doesn’t think he wants to know if Geralt can smell jealousy.

This throws Geralt, it seems. He pulls back a little, tilts his head the tiniest bit to the side. “No?”

Huh. Well. “Good to know.”

They’re both silent for a moment. It’s a long moment, and it isn’t exactly comfortable, but it is nice. Jaskier missed this, even when he didn’t remember what he was missing. Missed knowing someone as thoroughly as he knows Geralt. Missed being known.

“Get it out of your system,” Geralt says eventually. “Whatever you want to say about Yennefer.”

Well. Maybe he didn’t miss it that much.

He doesn’t want to  _ break _ this, dammit.

“It’s not that important,” Jaskier says.

Geralt rumbles out a laugh.

“No, really,” Jaskier presses.

“Just say it, Jaskier.”

He shouldn’t. Saying something callous about Yennefer is what split them apart before, and Jaskier knows better. He wasn’t trying to be hurtful, but he  _ hurt _ Geralt, and Geralt lashed out, and he’s not going to do it again.

Except his traitor mouth is saying, “Well, it’s just, Yennefer has always been interested in power, hasn’t she? And a princess… that’s a good way to get power.”

Geralt hums, waits a beat, then says, “She wants a child. More than power, I think. Or maybe not more, but as much.”

“A legacy,” Jaskier says, understanding.

“Someone who loves and depends on her, I think she said,” Geralt answers.

Well. It’s Geralt’s child surprise. He can do what he likes for her. And Jaskier knows how deep Geralt loves, under everything. Once he decided to take Cirilla on as his responsibility, he wouldn’t do anything to let her get hurt.

So.

“Tell me about the princess,” Jaskier says. “What’s she like?”

And Geralt tells him. He tells him a lot, and it’s obvious that he  _ does _ love this child, as Jaskier knew he would. It shines through every explanation of how she protected herself for so long alone, every praise of how quick a learner she is. Fatherhood suits Geralt.

Jaskier is so glad to remember that he knew it would be like this.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt comes running in faster than Jaskier has seen him run in who knows how long— since the time Jaskier almost got eaten by a bruxa, at least. And that was ages ago. 

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks.

“It’s Ciri,” Geralt says, and his eyes are wide and panicked and so, so desperate, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to help, because if something’s wrong with Ciri, that means—

Well. Geralt’s never looked like this before. Jaskier thinks he probably loves Ciri more than he’s ever loved anyone. Or at least, he’s more comfortable in that love.

“What’s happening?” Jaskier asks.

“She got separated from Yen. Jaskier, she’s—if they don’t—you have to get help.”

“But—” Jaskier starts, holding up his hand, a reminder in bright red painted on it. “I can’t leave. It’ll kill us. Or you, at least.”

“Maybe,” Geralt says. His voice is grim, and so is his face. “But if you don’t go she’ll die.”

“I’m not going to do something that I know will kill you,” Jaskier says.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt growls, and it’s all beast, all wild, all barely tamed fury, but not fury at Jaskier, fury at himself, for getting himself trapped here, because of course Geralt would hate himself for this. Geralt is standing stock still, not threatening at all, his hands buried in the silver fur of his scalp. “Ciri is more important than I am.”

Jaskier would like to argue with that. He’s absolutely certain that Geralt is wrong about that, that Ciri needs Geralt, and that  _ Jaskier _ needs him. 

But then Geralt says “ _ please _ ” in this small, broken voice, and Geralt has said ‘please’ maybe three times in the decades Jaskier has known him, and how is he supposed to say no to that?

So he doesn’t.

* * *

Jaskier is shoved out the door wearing a cloak and a pair of boots that have gone creaky with disuse, and Roach is at the door to greet him. It’s been barely half an hour since he agreed to leave, and even that feels like too long. Geralt didn’t tell Jaskier what he saw in that mirror of his, but it must have been something awful, must have been—

Jaskier doesn’t want to know, not really.

He gets onto Roach’s back quickly and with an awful lot of undignified wriggling. It’s too slow. And it’s been too long since Jaskier’s ridden.

Still, he gets his feet into the stirrups and his hands on the reins, and Roach barely needs a squeeze before she’s off at a trot and then a canter and then a full-out gallop, and Jaskier is too focused on keeping his seat to pay attention to whether or not they’re going to right way. They haven’t hit a tree or fallen into a river, so they must be on a road of some sort.

It won’t be in time. There’s no way he can make it in time, no way whatever Geralt saw won’t be over, even with Yennefer’s way of getting places. But he can’t give up, can’t slow down, not when Geralt begged him to go. And it’s not as if he could help any better by going to Ciri himself. If a child who can scream mountains down needs help, it won’t be of a kind Jaskeir can give.

_ Please _ , Geralt said, and Jaskier echoes it internally. Please let him get there in time. Please let this damnable magic castle be close enough to Yennever for Jaskier to make it before Ciri’s killed, or worse. Please don’t let the last hope for Cintra die because Jaskier couldn’t figure out how to break Geralt’s curse in time for Geralt to rescue his daughter himself. Please don’t let Jaskier’s selfishness, his joy to have Geralt to himself for once, kill the people Geralt really loves.

Please.

A branch slaps across Jaskier’s face, giving him a mouthful of snow and rocking him back into the cantle of Roach’s saddle. When he manages to shake the snow out of his eyes, he’s nearly blinded again by sunlight. It’s pale, wintry sunlight, but brighter than Jaskier’s seen in who knows how long, with that castle’s gloom.

And it’s bright against the mountains that stretch out in front of him.

There are no mountains near the forest Jaskier entered two months ago.

He decides not to question it. Magic and all that. The forest near his own home in Lettenhove is a bit… odd. Forests often are. He’s acclimated to the idea of forests acting unusually.

Roach hasn’t slowed.

Before Jaskier knows it, they’re at the gates of a keep. It’s crumbling, covered in vines that look dead now but will probably burst back to life come spring. Soon. Winter’s almost over.

Jaskier slides—falls—somethings off Roach and throws himself at the door, shouldering it open instead of knocking. It’s not locked, thank the gods, but it makes a hell of a noise as it creaks open and he and Roach tumble inside.

Through the courtyard and to the keep proper, to a door that  _ is _ locked, and this time Jaskier starts knocking with all his might, and it hurts his hands, dear Melitele it hurts and those are his livelihood, but he’s gotten bruises before, and Cirilla is going to die and Geralt will break if that happens, Jaskier knows he will—

The door opens.

Inside is vastly different than outside. He should stop being surprised by castles that are different on the inside than the outside, especially castles that are housing Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg and yet he somehow still is. This places is gorgeous, full of light and fine furniture and paintings on the walls—

And Yennefer, who does little more than raise her eyebrows at him. She looks at his still-raised, bruising fists, and she’s dressed to kill and gorgeous and the only woman Geralt has ever truly loved and Jaskier is a loud flamboyant mess and that  _ hurts _ but right now it’s not  _ important _ .

“Geralt sent me,” Jaskier gasps out. “He’s—Well. Here.”

Geralt gave Jaskier a letter before he left. How Geralt manages to write when he’s more paws than hands at the moment, Jaskier doesn’t know. But he wouldn’t tell Jaskier what he saw in the mirror, and apparently he managed.

Jaskier pulls the letter out of his pocket and hands it, crumpled, to Yennefer. She reads the letter with a darkening expression.

“Please,” Jaskier says. “You have to—please.”

Yennefer looks at him for too long, then says, “I have to prepare before I go. Sit down, you look like you’re going to pass out.”

Jaskier freezes. Because— he can’t.

He— Geralt—

Jaskier starts shaking his head. He has to go back. He has to get back to Geralt. Maybe if he gets there fast enough, Geralt won’t die. Maybe—maybe there’s time to undo whatever it is Jaskier broke when he left. Maybe he won’t be too late.

He can’t save Geralt’s child just to lose Geralt. Can’t lose Geralt  _ again _ , not when he’s only just realized what he got back.

Without noticing, he’s been babbling a lot of this, a fair amount of “no” and “I need to go back” and “Geralt needs me,” and probably something about the curse.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier stops talking.

“You’re no good to him if you fall asleep and fall off the horse,” she says, and it’s kinder than anything she’s ever said to him.

“I’m no good to him here, either,” Jaskier says. He can rest when he gets back to the castle. Back to Geralt. 

“If you wait,” Yennefer says, “I can send you back quicker than you could ride.”

The whole thing seems ridiculous, somehow. He hates Yennefer, and not just out of jealousy. Out of her forcing Geralt to kill who know how many people. Out of Geralt deserving better than she’s treated him. And she certainly doesn’t like Jaskier. But here they are, and she’s being almost kind to him, and it’s going to get Geralt  _ killed _ —

He’s laughing.

“ _ Jaskier _ .” It’s not cruel, or annoyed, or even worried. Just a warning. A reminder. “Fifteen minutes.”

With a tremendous effort, Jaskier stops shaking his head, stops laughing, and almost manages to stop shaking. He stands straight, and gives Yennefer something that is trying hard to be a smile. “Thank you,” he says. He can wait. Fifteen minutes, to save him a long journey back.

Yennefer nods. Gives him a long look, as if making certain he won’t fall apart again. Turns and heads up the stairs.

There’s a story playing out, and Jaskier would love, more than anything, to go with Yennefer and see what comes of it. Stories are always better when he can see them firsthand. But he’ll just be in the way if he goes with her and it’s not as if she’d take him with her anyway. Besides. He has places to be.

His hand hurts.

She comes back less than fifteen minutes later with a bag slung over her shoulder and gives him another long look before heading to the courtyard. “You haven’t broken the curse yet?” she asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t even know if I can,” he says, and it’s the first time he admits it to himself. It’s easier to let his doubts out around Yennefer. It’s not as if he’s got a reputation to maintain for her.

“You can,” she says, and she gives a little nod at his hand, at the rose on it. “You wouldn’t be marked, otherwise.”

“You couldn’t,” Jaskier points out.

The look Yennefer gives him is full of an emotion Jaskier can’t quite place. When she finally answers, what she says is, “Geralt tried to force destiny to make me into something for him. It didn’t work. Now we have to figure out what we are to each other ourselves. You can do this.”

“Great,” Jaskier says. “Any hints?” If it even matters, if he’ll make it back in time, if if if—

“Just one,” Yen says, and she stretches her hands out in opposite directions, one portal that opens onto deep, dark woods, one that leads somewhere darker— a cave? “Hurry the hell up. Ciri’s too much for me to handle alone.”

* * *

The trip home (and when did he start thinking of a creepy cursed castle as  _ home _ ? When did he start thinking of  _ anywhere _ as home?) is even more of a blur than the trip to Kaer Morhen. It feels shorter and longer both, and it is definitely darker. The snow is melting a little, and Roach is wading through slush. Yennefer dumped them out close to the castle but not directly in front of it.

Finally, finally, they’re back at the castle. Jaskier hasn’t seen it from the outside since the first time he stumbled through its doors, half-frozen and soaked to the skin. He hadn’t seen what it looked like in a lot of detail, but he doesn’t remember it looking quite this… decrepit. One of the towers is crumbling, and the gargoyles above the door are so eroded they look like they’re melting with the snow. 

Inside there are no lights. No noise, either.

Jaskier’s too late.

No. He can’t be.

Jaskier doesn’t bother to close the door, and he dimly registers the sound of Roach’s hooves clipping along the floor behind him. It seems less important than it would normally be, a horse voluntarily following him inside. Because nothing’s really important, in comparison to Geralt, because Jaskier has to find him, has to prove to the spell that he’s back, that he didn’t leave, that he—

His hand hurts. It’s hurt like fire since he left the castle, the rose burning into his skin like the brand it so resembles. He’s been too panicked to pay much attention to it. That’s a good sign, right, that it still hurts? If it still hurts, it means the curse is still going, which means Geralt can’t be dead. He ignored the pain on his journey, mostly, because Ciri was in danger. And he’s only met the Cintran princess a few times, but she seemed clever and kind and brave. And more important than that, she’s important to Geralt. 

Geralt.

Jaskier doesn’t know where Geralt’s rooms are right now. And the castle shifts around so much, he doesn’t even know where to begin looking for him.

The logical way to do this would be to start at the center, at the rose courtyard, and work outwards from there. Before, of course, the rose courtyard has found Jaskier more than the other way around, but he thinks he can find it, if he looks. Straight past the grand staircase, a right past the little den where the fire is always lit (burning down to embers, only barely lighting Jaskier’s path, going out, dying, like the whole castle, like Geralt—

No. No, he’s not dying, because there’s still a flower burning into Jaskier’s skin, and Jaskier is— 

Can he follow that? Can it lead him to Geralt?

It seems ridiculous, like the way things would work in one of his stories, like the sort of thing Geralt would scoff at him for writing, and if they both survive this and Jaskier can figure out how to break Geralt’s curse, he’ll certainly add that part in. But Jaskier doesn’t have much else to go on, other than hoping against hope that Geralt just happens to be somewhere Jaskier will stumble onto him.

Jaskier closes his eyes, holds his hand out in front of him, and spins in a slow circle, hoping, hoping—

It… does it feel different, when he faces right? Or is it just wishful thinking?

Well, it’s not as if he has anything better to go on.

Right it is.

Jaskier walks, then runs, through the shadows of the castle, for a very long time. He doesn’t know how long, or even where he’s going. The castle seems to blend together, and time seems to blur and bend, stretching or shrinking as if he’s been running for seconds and hours at the same time. His hand still hurts, and he clings to that.

The castle creaks around him in a way stone walls really shouldn’t, then groans, noisy for the first time in all the time Jaskier has been stuck here, and behind him there are clopping hooves, even though Jaskier definitely went up a staircase at some point. Nothing feels real, but everything feels urgent, and if Jaskier isn’t in time—

Well, he’ll just have to be in time, that’s all. The story can’t end like this, even the real story, the one he hasn’t told, the story that’s just life. Geralt has a destiny to fulfill. He has a child and a woman who loves him and they’re both waiting for Jaskier to get Geralt back to them, and he’s going to do great things, and if Jaskier is very, very lucky, Geralt will let him tag along again and tell their story, the real parts and the parts that are only true because they get to the meat of things and the beautiful lies that Jaskier can’t resist adding.

Geralt simply cannot die before Jaskier finds him.

There’s a loud crack that shakes Jaskier out of the trance-dream-panic. He stumbles, because there’s a stone on the floor. He looks up, and only just  _ barely _ jumps out of the way as another follows that one, and then another after that. The castle’s collapsing.

Jaskier stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, hand on his heart, leaning back against Roach. No more stones come down, though Jaskier can see sky through the gap in the far-off ceiling.

“Well,” he tells Roach with a shrug. “Shall we keep on, my lady?”

Roach doesn’t answer him, but she does start forward again. Jaskier could swear she rolls her eyes at him as she passes.

There’s something odd about that horse.

They don’t run any longer. Well, Jaskier jogs a few steps to get back in front of Roach, because he seriously cannot let a  _ horse _ find Geralt before he manages it. They walk, and Jaskier opens every door they pass. He doesn’t think he’s been in this part of the castle before, though the place is enough of a maze that he could have been.

And then—

Jaskier’s hand pulses, and for a moment, the pain stops.

“No, no no no,” Jaskier says, and shakes his hand vigorously, as if it’s gone numb and he just needs to wake it back up, as if it’s that easy to fix this.

The pain starts up again, thank the gods, and Jaskier starts forward again and—

There’s a hallway on his left. Jaskier is almost certain it wasn’t there before, and in this castle, he’d probably be right.

Roach is going forward, still. Jaskier watches her walk for a moment, thinks about a horse that’s too old to be just a horse, who follows Jaskier up staircases and knows where to find sorceresses. Then he feels his hand pulse again, and he follows his instincts. He turns down the corridor.

Roach lets out a snort, the long kind where her nostrils vibrate with it, a sort of brr noise. Jaskier doesn’t look back at her. He’s right. He has to be. This can’t be a coincidence. This is a story, after all. And he still believes in stories, despite everything.

He keeps walking.

After a moment, the sound of hooves clops behind him.

“Hope I’m right,” Jaskier tells Roach conversationally, without looking at her. “Otherwise you’ll probably never forgive me. Gods know I’ll never forgive myself.”

Another horsey snort.

They keep walking. There are no windows in this corridor, and no doors or off-turnings. Just a long passage, barely wide enough for a horse, almost too dark to see anything in, though Jaskier can just barely,  _ barely _ make out the corner between the walls and the floor. He holds his hands out a little ways away from him, just in case there is a turn off somewhere.

Who knows how long they walk. A long time. Or a few minutes. Time doesn’t quite feel real anymore, honestly hasn’t felt real since he walked into this damned castle back in January. He keeps walking, blessing decades of traveling on foot for his stamina, for the fact that he doesn’t tire even if he’s been walking for as long as he maybe has (days? Hours? Probably not days).

His companions, other than a horse who should not feel safe walking through a corridor barely wider than she is, are panic, always panic, and pain. His hand hurts worse now, dragging him forward almost, pulsing slower but more intensely.

As long as the pain is still there, Geralt has to still be alive. He has to.

And then it stops again.

And Jaskier nearly trips over a corpse.

The hall hasn’t ended. It hasn’t even gotten wider. But there Geralt is, just in the middle of the damn hallway, slumped against a wall. Jaskier stumbles into Geralt’s legs, nearly goes face-first into the floor. And his hand doesn’t hurt any longer.

Something hot and furry bumps against him, and there’s another horsey snort.

“Sorry,” Jaskier tells Roach absently. He’s already collapsing onto his knees, reaching out to Geralt’s face.

Still warm, thank Melitele. Still warm. Not too late. But no movement when Jaskier touches him, and Geralt’s eyes are closed. Jaskier slides his hand down to Geralt’s neck, feeling for a pulse. There’s nothing, but then again, Geralt’s pulse is always so damnably slow. “Keeps me from bleeding out” or something stupid like that. It’s given Jaskier the fright of his life more than once.

“More trouble than you’re worth,” Jaskier says, trying to tell if Geralt’s chest is moving. It’s too dark to see, Geralt barely distinguishable from the wall he’s leaning against, just a lighter area where his fur isn’t covered by clothes, and shadows everywhere else.

Well. If there’s a pulse, he can’t feel it. That’s okay. Right? Yes. Yeah. Geralt’s pulse is always like that. But maybe Jaskier can tell if he’s breathing. There’s that trick where you hold up a mirror to someone’s face and see if it fogs up, even if you can’t see or feel their breath. But Jaskier doesn’t have a mirror, because he’s not  _ that _ vain, thank you.

But Geralt has that mirror, right? The one that lets him see out? The one that told him where Ciri was? Yes, certainly. Maybe he has it on him. Right. Rummaging in Geralt’s pockets, now. Right.

Jaskier’s hand hasn’t started hurting again.

He reaches into Geralt’s pockets with growing desperation, feeling for something cold or hard or even just  _ not cloth _ .

Miracle of miracles, there it is. Hard and delicately tooled and cold the way silver shouldn’t be if it’s pressed against a human body unless it’s enchanted. Jaskier wrestles it out of Geralt’s pockets, worming it through folded cloth and around the hard bend between Geralt’s thigh and waist.

He holds it to Geralt’s face.

And there is… nothing. No fog. No breath. No sign of life. Still no pain. Nothing anywhere.

No. No no no no no nonono _ no _ .

“Dammit, Geralt, you can’t do this to me,” Jaskier says, quiet and furious. “This is not how we fucking end, you motherfucking emotionally constipated asshole. You do not get to leave before I tell you I’m in fucking love with you just because you don’t want to hear it.” 

He drops the mirror, lets it crash to the ground, and lets himself flop, collapse against Geralt’s— not corpse. Not corpse, because Geralt can’t be dead, because this isn’t a tragedy, it’s a destiny, and Jaskier isn’t the main character, but he’s part of it, part of Geralt’s story, and Geralt doesn’t die here, because he has things to do still.

“You what?”

Another horsey snort, and something presses against Jaskier’s hair.

“Not now, Roach, let me be,” Jaskier mumbles, not bothering to hide how miserable he is, ignoring the fact that apparently Roach can talk.

… And sounds awfully familiar.

Geralt is still warm. Jaskier sort of thought he’d feel hairier, even through the shirt. Fuzzy. It’s almost like he’s still alive.

The last time Jaskier thought Geralt was dead, it didn’t hurt this much. That time, yes, Jaskier had been heartbroken, but he hadn’t  _ known _ then, what this meant. What kind of love this was. And he’d been pissed at Geralt, too, then. Made it easier, being pissed off.

The warm pressure on Jaskier’s hair changes, gives a brief tug, the implication being that Jaskier should move his head off Geralt’s still-warm chest. Jaskier ignores it.

When he writes the song, he’ll write Roach out of this part. She’s a gallant horse and all, truly a marvel, but she’s also not very poetic to have at a deathbed. Although Geralt would hate that, if Jaskier ignored Roach’s presence. To be fair, Geralt hates—hated—everything Jaskier does to make the stories sell better. But he’d take personal offense at writing Roach out.

Maybe Jaskier will write two songs. One that gives this moment the gravity it deserves, and one that Geralt would actually like.

Another, more insistent tug.

“What?” Jaskier snaps, reeling up to glare at Roach, and finding, instead—

“Geralt?”

It is. It’s Geral, alive, alive,  _ alive _ and Jaskier could sing with it, could explode with it, could—

Hugs Geralt, can’t resist. It’s horribly uncomfortable, Geralt’s legs in the way of Jaskier getting a good angle, so his spine is all twisted and stretched. And the thing about long hair (or a mane, Jaskier supposes) that they don’t tell you is that when you hug someone with it, you can’t bury your face in their neck. If you do, you get a nice lungful of hair when you try to breathe.

But Geralt is a-fucking-live, so who the hell cares?

Eventually, though, Jaskier does need to breathe something that isn’t hair or skin, so he does pull back a little. Just enough to see Geralt’s expression, barely visible in the dim light. It goes, very abruptly, from something soft and fond and melty back to neutral. Geralt does that a lot, when Jaskier is fast enough to catch him.

“You ass,” Jaskier says, burying his face in Geralt’s hair again so they can both pretend Geralt isn’t having Emotions about this. “I thought you were  _ dead _ .”

“I’ve had worse,” Geralt says conversationally.

Jaskier murmurs in agreement. He’s seen some of those worse injuries. They were… something. Not pleasant. This hug, though? Very pleasant. Especially since Geralt’s still got a hand on the back of Jaskier’s head, and is carding it through Jaskier’s hair absently.

“Cirilla?” Geralt asks, eventually.

“With Yennefer,” Jaskier says, without any of the malice about the sorceress he usually feels. He can go back to hating her later. But it’s hard to hate anyone when he’s wrapped around Geralt and Geralt is alive and breathing in a way he wasn’t, a few moments ago.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but it’s a satisfied noise.

They stay curled up in the dark together for a long time. Then, because Jaskier is getting closer and closer to being middle aged (perish the thought), his back decides to complain about the position. He goes tense with it, and Geralt notices, because he notices everything.

“Come on,” Geralt says, patting Jaskier’s back briskly. “Up.”

Jaskier stands with a groan. He has to let go of Geralt’s blissfully alive body to do it, but he’s stiff enough that he has an excuse to keep a hand on the witcher’s shoulder. And Geralt, apparently, is stiff too, because he takes Jaskier’s offered hand to help him up.

They walk further down through the corridor. It’s still dark, but it feels shorter, this way. Maybe the castle is back to normal. Maybe Jaskier’s gotten things back to rights. Made it back in time to keep all the magic from turning in on itself. Geralt sticks close to Jaskier at first, still touching him. Almost like he heard what Jaskier said, about loving him, and like he’s all right with that. Happy about it, even.

But that’s… not worth hoping for.

Behind them, Roach keeps pressing her nose into the space between their heads, burying her nose in Geralt’s neck the same way Jaskier was a few minutes ago. It’s uncomfortable, but Jaskier can’t grudge her that double check that Geralt’s alive, the joy of it.

In an instant, the corridor goes from shadowed and black to bright, brilliant sun. They’re in Roach’s paddock, walking through an arch that wasn’t there before. Jaskier has yet to catch the castle changing, but this is closer than he’s ever come, a blink from one state to the other. It  _ feels _ like they’ve rounded a corner to the outdoors, but he doesn’t think they did, actually. Could swear they never turned.

Below them, the grass is wet and squelching. Roach pushes past them, and Jaskier is pressed into the wall as she leaves the corridor for the sun. As he falls back, he spins a little, and gets his first proper look at Geralt since he left.

Geralt is human again. Or human-shaped at least. Can’t call Geralt human.

“I—Geralt!” Jaskier says. He reaches up, can’t help himself, grips Geralt’s biceps.

“Hm?”

“You’re back to normal!”

“Yes?” Geralt says. He blinks at Jaskier.

“You’re not surprised?”

“No?” Raised eyebrows. Actual eyebrows, dark against pale pale skin— _ skin _ !

“Wait, but—” Jaskier stops. Looks Geralt up and down, in all his six feet of pink-skinned snoutless glory. “What did I do? Did I break it?”

“Yes?” Geralt furrows his brow at Jaskier, like he’s a little worried about him.

“But—  _ how _ ?” Jaskier demands.

Geralt just blinks at Jaskier for a bit. “You don’t know?”

Gods above, Jaskier forgot how beautiful Geralt is. Well, he didn’t forget, exactly, but it’s different, remembering and seeing. Seeing Geralt in the sunlight, his hair loose and wild against his skin, those black-eyed-susan irises, the shape of his forearms under that loose black shirt of his… it’s transcendent.

“I came back?” Jaskier suggests. But that can’t be it. Otherwise it wouldn’t have hurt that much to have to leave in the first place.

“You’re not this stupid, Jaskier,” Geralt says, but he sounds as much fond as he does exasperated.

“I shouted at you? Jaskier tries.

Geralt puts a palm over his hand, drags it down a little bit. Then his other hand joins it, and that’s not a gesture of annoyance, it’s… embarrassment? No, that can’t be right. Jaskier hasn’t seen Geralt embarrassed… ever, really. Annoyed, yes. Angry, yes. Frustrated, absolutely yes. But embarrassed?

“Please don’t make me say it,” Geralt says. And he  _ is _ embarrassed.

“I…” and then it clicks. “Oh. Wait. True love and all that?”

Geralt hums in agreement, face still hidden in his hands.

“Wait, but—” Jaskier starts, then stops. He can’t have this conversation without looking Geralt in the eye. It’s important. He grabs at Geralt’s wrists, pulls them away from Geralt’s face and towards Jaskier’s chest.

Geralt meets his eyes, the slightest flush of color on his cheeks. He doesn’t resist Jaskier’s grip.

“Am I right?” Jaskier asks. “That I—true love. Is that just poetry and stories, or is it actually something? Something important, I mean.” He doesn’t let go of Geralt’s hands.

“It… means what you think it means. Probably.”

“But… Yennefer?”

“Tried,” Geralt says. “Didn’t work.” He sounds miserable. And not in a Yennefer-doesn’t-love-me way. In a please-can-we-stop-talking-about-this way. Jaskier would like to let it go, a little, but he needs to know. Really know, that is. What this is. If Geralt—Well. If. Just if.

Jaskier slides down the wall Roach pushed him against. He can’t—he doesn’t get to have this. Doesn’t get to be the one tied to Geralt, the one who he—

He can’t even think the word, let alone say it.

Because he’s not the main character in this story, and he’s certainly not the love interest. He’s a side character. Comic relief. A good friend, at best. His story is a good one, too, yes, but it’s not an epic. Jaskier’s life is a romantic farce, and he’s fine with that. Fine with a story about telling other people’s stories. He’ll still be remembered, that way. He doesn’t need to be important the way he’s known Geralt is, from the beginning. It’s enough to just be here, witnessing. Patching up wounds after. And he’s fine settling for that. But if he’s understanding this right…

He can’t get his hopes up just to have them dashed against the thrice-damned magic floor of this six-times-damned magic castle.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks. He’s looking down at where Jaskier is slumped against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. Worried. Uncomfortable.

“I’m going to need you to use your words, Geralt,” Jaskier says. His voice shakes a little, and that needs to stop right now. “I know you hate that, but I can’t—” he has to stop for a second. “I can’t jump to conclusions about this.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything for entirely too long. Jaskier can’t look him in the eye and instead focuses on his bare feet. He’s going to be rejected again. At least this time there won’t be shouting.

“Right,” Jaskier says, eventually, because he has to break this heavy, heavy silence. “Well. Um. Right. I should’ve known you wouldn’t—we can still be friends, can’t we? I don’t want to—”

“I’m in love with you,” Geralt says it in a rush, so quick Jaskier almost misses it, has to stop and think about it for a second, make sure he’s translating the words properly in his head, that they all still mean what they meant a few minutes ago.

“Would you repeat that?” he asks, just to make sure.

With a groan of exasperation, Geralt collapses to his knees in front of Jaskier and grabs his face in two strong hands. Thumbs tilting Jaskier’s face up to meet his gaze, Geralt says, his voice softer and gentler than Jaskier’s heard it in a long time, “I’m not saying it twice, you godsdamned prick.”

Jaskier wraps one of his hands around Geralt’s wrist—a beautiful, human, pink-skinned wrist—and gives Geralt his most bastard-y grin. “Then what are you waiting for?” he asks, leaning in as much as he can with Geralt’s grip around his face.

And finally, finally—Geralt kisses him.

* * *

Jaskier is over the moon. He could die he’s so happy. Everything is perfection and bliss and the first blossom in spring and a fire and dry clothes after a rainstorm and new strings for his lute and coming back home to Oxenfurt after a long year of walking and worn black cotton under his fingers and—

“You’re too quiet,” Geralt says. “I don’t trust it.” Belying the accusation, he’s tracing something on Jaskier’s chest that Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion is the sign for Quen.

“I’d like to make love to you,” Jaskier answers.

“Out here?” Geralt asks. He sounds scandalized, which is rich considering Jaskier’s  _ seen _ Geralt having sex in the ruins of a collapsed building. “In front of Roach?”

Jaskier shoots Geralt a look that’s meant to be annoyed. But Geralt is grinning at him, and Jaskier has recently been kissed utterly senseless, and—“Was that a joke, you bastard?”

“No,” Geralt lies. He’s smiling. Smiling  _ at _ Jaskier. While Jaskier can see.

Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s neck and says, “You can’t fool me. I know you’ve got a sense of humor under that death glare.”

“Only reason I’ve kept you around,” Geralt agrees easily.

“More lies,” Jaskier says around a grin of his own. “You’re in love with me.”

“Against my better judgement.”

“I’m a catch and you know it. I’m rich—”

“Which is why you steal my coin.” Geralt’s fingers are still tracing patterns onto Jaskier’s skin, hand still buried under Jaskier’s chemise, which is horribly askew at this point.

“It’s called sharing. Don’t distract me. I’m handsome—”

“I’ll give you that one.”

“I’m an excellent musician—”

“Debatable.”

“Too late. You said I was good two weeks ago and I’m never letting you take it back. I’ve never coerced you into murdering anyone, which is more than I can say about some of your other lovers, and you don’t have proof of this one yet, but I am excellent in the sack. Also if you wanted I would absolutely murder everyone who’s ever hurt you.”

“Please don’t,” Geralt says. “I have a hard enough time keeping you out of trouble as it is.”

_ Oh _ Jaskier loves him. Loves him enough to stay. Loves him enough to want to build a life with him.

He kisses Geralt again. Because he can, and wants to, and Geralt wants it too. And Geralt is quite good at kissing. Puts all that single-minded drive of his into it. Jaskier’s got the technique of kissing down to an art form, but Geralt puts forth a good argument for amateurish passion.

Eventually they have to stop or risk actually giving Roach a show she never asked for, and Jaskier still very much has his suspicions about how much Roach knows and understands.

“Can we leave?” Jaskier asks. “Have we broken all the curses, or just the one with the whole—monstrous form,” here he gestures at Geralt’s non-monstrous body, “thing?”

“We can go,” Geralt says. “Should pack up first, though.”

“Ooh, looting the magic prison,” Jaskier says, grinning at Geralt. “I like it.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. But his arms around Jaskier’s waist are still soft, and there’s a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth.

* * *

They pack up and leave without incident. The castle feels different now. Empty, somehow. The floor doesn’t drag Jaskier along with it. Oh, the place is still dark and gloomy and covered in images of roses and monsters, and it still moves, helpfully providing a gate to the outside in Roach’s paddock. But it feels less echoing. More like it’s trying to be helpful and less like it’s invading Jaskier’s thoughts.

“Shouldn’t the spell be broken?” Jaskier asks, looking back at the castle as the three of them walk away, Roach laden with far too much food. The door has just slammed behind them without either man touching it.

“Mm,” Geralt agrees. “Yennefer must be busy.”

And doesn’t that make sense. Two spells, one to hinder and one to help. Beasts and roses. Stones and glass.

Jaskier is already composing the song he’ll write about this. Without either of their names, of course. Maybe Jaskier will turn himself into a maiden. Maidens sell better than middle-aged bards. Even successful, handsome middle-aged bards. 

They’re a long way into the woods when Jaskier looks over at Geralt, surprised again to find they’re nearly the same height. “I’m going to miss looking up at you, I think,” he says.

Geralt snorts in derision.

“Really,” Jaskier presses. He Gives Geralt a grin that’s only a little flirtatious. “I’ve always liked men who are bigger than I am. Something about being able to tuck myself under their chins.”

“Do you want me to be cursed again?” Geralt eyes him oddly.

“Meltitele, no,” Jaskier says with a melodramatic shudder. “Watching you try to do anything delicate? It hurt to look at. I wouldn’t wish that back on you.”

“Good,” Geralt says. “Since I was losing my mind and all.” It’s a jab, but a gentle one.

Jaskier smothers a wicked grin, turns it into a considerate look up and down Geralt’s body. “Although I wasn’t just being nice when I said you were  _ quite _ attractive like that. Gods, I bet you could’ve snapped me in  _ half _ .”

Geralt  _ blushes _ . It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Jaskier is in love with that faint brush of pink on pale skin. He resolves to bring it back as often as possible.

Geralt clears his throat. Closes his eyes for a second. Turns to Jaskier, meets the challenge Jaskier gave with one of his own, and says, “I still can.”

And  _ Oh _ , bedding Geralt is going to be excellent, Jaskier just knows it. Not now, though. He requires a real actual bed for his tumbles. One that isn’t in that damned castle. And they’ve got to make sure Cirilla is all right. 

Jaskier doesn’t know how this will end. If true love is a forever sort of thing or not. If Jaskier is even capable of maintaining a long-term relationship. What will happen with the Cintran princess and Geralt and destiny and all that. What will happen, even, when Geralt and Yennever see each other again. But he’s spent decades loving Geralt from a distance, and he can’t wait to start loving him up close.

So he gives Geralt a quick kiss, because he can, and says, “That’ll be difficult. I’m not as breakable as I look.”

Geralt meets his eyes and says, “I know.”


End file.
